


And the Sun Still Shines

by itsallaboutzarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, And I wouldn't necessarily say closure but I'm gonna say closure, Blackouts, Confusion, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Major character issues, Mentions of Death, Multiple Personalities, Muteness, Nightmares, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Sadness, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going through the darkest months of his life, the only hope, only positive thing he ended up having is Lakeshore. Being committed was too good to last, too good for it to be real, so Zayn wasn't surprised when the last light turned off.</p><p>Or the one where Zayn is in a mental institute where he meets Harry, who makes his life better before he makes it worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So I didn't mean to post this yet, but seeing as I am my own beta, I don't know if it's good or not.  
> It's gonna be a long one, I can tell you that much and it's gonna be painful, so don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> Please tell me what you think!
> 
> So, I hope it's okay and enjoy! 
> 
> (As a side note: additional tags will come, because I don't wanna ruin the story, I will add them as I update.)  
> (Another side note: trigger warnings do apply, because mental illness/issues are depicted in this work, but not graphically; I also want to mention that I do not take mental illnesses lightly and am not trying, or intending to lessen/make fun of the burden they can inflict on people)

_ If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about you more. _

Jane Austen

 

+

 

You know how they say, there's always a light at the end of the tunnel? How it'll be over before you get married? Or how time heals all wounds?

 

All of those stupidly pointless sayings, coming from hopelessly ignorant people who don't know how much a person can hurt, or just what your head goes through when you lose something with the slightest importance, with  no imaginable way of you ever getting to hold it in your hands again.

 

Knowing you'll never again wake up to see those deep eyes  looking back at you. Words in your head continuously repeating: you'll never touch his skin, his heart, ever again. Knowing you'll never get to see him again and _it_ not even being your own fucking fault –though it sure feels like it.

 

There is no light, because there is no tunnel. He is drowning and there is no light. It won't be over before he gets married, because there is no one he'd want to get married to any more. And fucking shit, if time actually heals his wounds, then spank his ass and call him Betty.

 

Why couldn't all of  _those_ people go through losing half of  _their_ heart?

Fuck. Them. All.

 

 

_ + _

_ Chapter 1 _

_ + _

 

 

He was supposed do go 'talk it out' because it 'helps', but fuck, was he so not doing that. No one, meaning absolutely no one, had the right to make him talk and no one could, not about it and or _him_.

 

Firstly, talking was the last thing he wanted to do, so no, he was not going to talk it out, and secondly, talking is over rated anyway.

 

He'd never been much of a conversationalist, well, except when it came to talking to  _him._ Fuck, he can't even say  _his_ name;  _fuck._

But yeah, he could talk to  _ him _ all day and all night; just  _ him.  _ No problems, no holding back, no nothing. And there he was, having to go talk to this doctor expert person who he knew nothing about. Yeah, not happening.

 

She did seem okay though. Maybe she understood that it wasn't the easiest thing for him to do right now, that it was too soon. Five months had gone by, yet it still feels like it all happened this morning, all of it happening mere hours ago: the hospital, the fight, the arrest and now this. It was too much too soon.

 

And it wasn't like she pushed or forced him to talk. They just sat there, every morning at 10 o'clock to the dot –he made it clear he wasn't going to participate at 8 for anyone – they just sat.

 

Five months ago, when their sessions started, she'd tried to start casual conversation –if talking to your shrink can ever be casual– with , “How are you doing this morning?” “Sleep okay?” and “Feel like talking?”

 

She quickly understood that his mornings were excruciatingly painful, with just the thought of having to wake up being enough for a migraine, that he hasn't had a good, uninterrupted sleep since before everything and that he, more or less, didn't feel like breathing.

 

So they just met every morning in the make-belief living room area downstairs, sat in the two armchairs by the floor-to-ceiling windows and admired the view. 

 

He had the chance to memorize every tree branch, every flower; light pink cornelias aligned perfectly with the path to the tiny lake, chrysanthemums blooming in the perfectly warm colours of those deep sunsets you have to be lucky to see and lavender, vibrating with its promise of summer.

 

He'd even memorized the people. Well, that may be stretching the truth a little. He hadn't actually spoken to anyone besides his room-mate, nonetheless, he did memorize the people.

 

Peter was his favourite; he was old and wrinkly and full of war stories which he loved to share with anyone who'd lend an ear, even if he'd never actually left his home town of Knoxville, which only added a lack of credibility to said stories. 

 

Amanda was the 'normal' one. She was the one that made people go, “Why is she in a mental institute?” And she was normal; during the day that is. Once everybody was asleep, Amanda turned into that person everyone's afraid of. She suffered from nightmare disorder, sleep terror or the combination of both, Zayn's not sure. She was 28 years old and she hadn't had a night of restful sleep since her baby of 2 months had died during the night 9 years ago.

 

Louis was an okay 22 year old lad, Tomo was a complete bitch and a biter, and Lou was the tender, shy one, but he was also the 'cuter' as Louis liked to say. Basically, Louis was okay, his two other personalities, not so much. Zayn hadn't found out what exactly caused him to 'split', but he presumed it must've been quite something, because no one seemed to really know. Having multiple personalities had to be rough, but your personalities having mental disorders had to be a bitch.

 

That brings us to Liam –who Tomo loved to torment. See, Zayn could relate to Liam –on some level. Liam couldn't handle physical anything. No one could touch him, talk to him, come near him or simply look at him intently. Zayn'd never even seen his eyes in those five months, because Liam didn't let anyone look directly at him.

 

Matty was the shy one, but she never came close to Liam. She thought it was normal to have everyday planned to the last second, even if she was told otherwise at least once every hour. She did know, however, that her skin picking wasn't, that's why she was always wearing those long sleeved knitted jumpers or sweaters. She was sweet though, she got along with Lou, so much so, that she was usually the one to calm him down when he went slightly overboard.

 

And so the list concludes with Nicky. Zayn had them all figured out; who he couldn't sit next to, who'd push him to talk, who he'd have to listen to, who'd try to cut him –even if it only happened that one time, he was still avoiding Tomo– but Nicky was a bit of a mystery. She was bitchy and she lived for attention, but if every attention whore got committed, mental institutes would've ran out of room quite awhile ago. 

 

Every time he thought about any of them, if Louis was Louis, or if Amanda felt exhausted, he couldn't have helped but wonder what all of them thought of him. They'd all realized there was no use in asking him questions, but some of them still talked to him and yeah, he may not have been the best person to talk to, but no one really seemed to care. Which wasn't all that surprising, since everybody else'd had their own problems to deal with. 

 

He hadn't had any outbursts yet, so that was good, but he realized that everyone knew that selective mutism wasn't enough for getting committed, so he was pretty sure everyone had created a story about him that filled their curiosity.

 

And just as he didn't have to talk to hear people going on and on about their lives in the halls, he didn't have to introduce himself to his room-mate to know pretty much everything about the lad. But he didn't hold it against him.

 

Niall, his room-mate, was definitely not one of the luckiest people he'd met. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was 17 or 18 years old, but he said he knew before then. He claimed he'd always known that the world looked differently through his eyes. And yet he was the happiest, most cheerful person Zayn'd ever had the displeasure of meeting.

 

Honestly? Niall wasn't all that bad. The first day Zayn came to this god forsaken place, he went to his room and completely ignored everyone: the doctor that said she was appointed to him as his psychiatrist, the nurse that brought his examined duffel bag to his room and Niall, who Zayn figured out, didn't need actual people to talk with, since he had plenty of them in his head.

 

Niall had told him straight up that it didn't matter if he wasn't going to talk, because he was going to _make_ him talk by the end of the week. He even bragged about his plan to the nurses and Zayn's shrink, to which she had told the blond boy that he shouldn't feel bad if he failed, since she doubted anyone could make Zayn talk any time soon. It took the blonde took less than a week.

 

Niall might have been the happiest person on the planet, but he was also the loudest, most obnoxious and chaotic person on the planet, and he was Zayn's room-mate. Add that to the list of friends he had in his head, all of which he talked to all the fucking time and you got Zayn to talk apparently. Not talk in the strictest sense of the word, since it took Niall all of two days to make Zayn go ballistic on him.

 

“Would you shut up already!” he yelled at the top of his voice, fists clenched in his sheet while the only light in the room was the moon's pale shine seeping through the tree branches outside. “Just because I can't fucking sleep, does not mean you can talk to yourself at 3 in the fucking morning!”

It was the best thing he had done in a while, feeling some of the anxiety that had built up over the days spent at Lakeshore flow away, and… Because it worked. Niall was sitting up, his eyes locked on Zayn's with his mouth wide open. He hadn't thought him talking would shut Niall up so fast.

 

“You, you… ,” Niall tried saying, but was apparently at a loss for words.

“I, I...” Zayn echoed him mockingly, trying to imitate Niall's face and posture as well, since he was feeling particularly mean.

 

He wanted to yell at him some more, since apparently he was on some kind of a role, but his glory was cut short by the nurses rushing into their room, armed with straps and needles.

“Stop!” Niall was the one yelling now. “Don't move,” he added in a whisper, his eyes narrowly aimed at Zayn, making the three huge men stop and stare at him. “He's talking.”

 

It didn't go all that greatly from there. The nurses didn't know what had happened, but since no one was getting badgered to death, they left. They did however, come back in the morning, only this time, they came with his and Niall's shrinks. Both of them had to go and explain what exactly happened last night, because well, outbursts during the night were apparently frowned upon in mental institutions. Who knew, right?

 

You can probably picture how in detail Zayn explained that night's events, but then he didn't really have to, due to Niall's enactment of the previous night. The boy literally made his shrink go to their room, so that the play-by-play was more realistic and believable –his words, not Zayn's.

Zayn and his doctor followed them to their room and watched as Niall moved from one bed to another, and well, Zayn had to admit to himself; Niall wasn't all that bad.

 

After that, Niall went around telling everyone who'd listen than he was the only one Zayn talked to, but since no one had any evidence to prove this tremendous achievement of his, no one cared.

Except Zayn's shrink, Dr Sonya Stygian.

 

If you picture a psychiatrist, she is quite the opposite. She's relatively tall, especially because of those black heels she perpetually walks in. Zayn's also never seen her in pants, she's always wrapped in those tight fitting dresses which make Zayn wonder how she can even sit down without ripping it at the seams. Furthermore, she seems to be a fan of muted dark shades of the colour palette, since all her dresses are in maroonish or navy blue hues, though black tulip had always suited her best.

She mostly had her hair tied up in neat buns or tight pony tails, but as they were sitting in those two green armchairs, both peering out the window, she let her brown curls fall around her shoulders.

 

Don't be creeped out just yet. Zayn is the observing type of person, not the stalker-ish kind. If he's good at anything, it's paying attention and listening. For instance, he's noticed that Dr Stygian only ever crosses her right leg over her left, never the opposite, she bites her nails on her left hand only, and wears a watch on her right hand, even though she isn't left handed. 

 

So yeah, he did paid attention, but, he didn't hear anything about her or what she was actually like in those five months. Well, at least not anything interesting. Supposedly, she was single, in her mid-thirties, she had been at Lakeshore for a couple of years and everybody loved her, even the nurses.

 

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” Dr Stygian said with the corners of her lips turned up in a gentle smile. “I think I'm lucky, you know, that I get to work here? Everything's just so beautiful.”

_ It is,  _ Zayn thought to himself as he turned from her to look at the garden again.  _Though I wouldn't say_ I'm _lucky to be here._

 

“Just wait for august,” she said, still admiring the view. “It's my favourite month. Everything gets...” she trailed off, considering which word would fit best, and Zayn likes that about her too, how she always chooses her words so carefully, even if she takes a minute to find the right ones. “Warmer,” she finished with a smile.

_ Hmm, warmer,  _ Zayn considered as he felt his own lips turn up a little.  _Than's how I'd describe_ him _. Warm,_ he _was so warm._

 

“It's a shame, really. That you don't talk,” she said as she turned to look at him, still smiling. “I think I'd like talking to you, but not as your psychiatrist, just talking to you, hearing what you have to say.”

 

Zayn hadn't spoken to Dr Stygian since his arrival to Lakeshore, and well, he felt kind of bad.

He had grown fond –or maybe just used to– Niall, so talking to him wasn't a problem, even if they mostly spoke at night, when the room was dark and nobody else was around.

And he knew. He knows it wasn't normal to stop speaking, but losing the love of your life when you're 25 also isn't 'normal'. He might've looked stupid, but fuck it, he had the right to be silent.

 

But, it's not, that wasn't why he hadn't spoken to Dr Stygian yet. Talking to Niall wasn't a problem, because they'd talked about everything _besides_ the reason why Zayn was at Lakeshore. 

 

In all honesty, Zayn didn't even know any more. He didn't know why he liked talking to Niall, or why he didn't want to talk to anyone else. He did know, however, that talking to Dr Stygian was a no go. There was no way he was going to talk about _him_ or what happened… 

 

He's still not ready to face everything just yet.

 

So he stayed quiet and offered a polite smile, hoping it'd be enough.

“Have you thought about keeping a journal maybe?”

_Huh?_ Zayn just stared, his face composed into a blank stare in hopes she'd understand it meant to continue.

“Well, I don't mean in a diary sort of way,” she explained, as she wrote something in her notes. 

 

Zayn'd noticed she took this time they sat quietly to sort out her notes and papers. “You could just write what you feel or think. It's not healthy to keep everything bottled up and to yourself, you know?”

 

_ I talk to Niall,  _ he wanted to protest, but as if she was reading his mind,

“I know you talk to Niall, he's told me. And he's also told me _what_ you two talk about,” she said, making Zayn slightly uncomfortable, the barely-there feelings still being on the 'okay side' of angry.

 

_ Niall is a blabber mouth, but why would he blab to her about them talking? _

“Don't worry,” she said with a smirk. “He didn't exactly volunteer the information. I just thought you could write down everything you two don't talk about, like for instance about what you think, what happened five moths ago or what it was like before then.”

 

Just hearing her mentioning it, implying it was enough for him to tense up and close his eyes shut.

_ No. I-. I can't talk about it, I can't write about it. I can't think about it. No! _

He did what he'd been told to when things got too heavy for him to deal with, so he opened his eyes and looked down at his intertwined fingers laying in his lap as he carefully shook his head.

 

“Okay, it's just an idea, no one's making you do anything you don't want to,” she finished in a calm rush, closing her notes, like he hadn't almost lost it. “That's it for today, sadly,” she looked at him. “Oh, I almost forgot. I won't be able to see you tomorrow, so we'll continue this on Thursday.”

He nodded once and smiled again, though the smile wouldn't've convinced a blind man of being genuine.

 

He might've been turning into Matty, but as Dr Stygian stood up and walked away, he slumped further into the armchair, bringing his knees up, so that they were resting on his chest, because he felt like his life was either crumbling before his eyes or getting ready to blow up.

 

_ It's cruel, _ he thought.  _Why would she set this whole routine of meeting everyday at exactly 10 o'clock and then go and brake it? Especially if said routine was comforting for a mental patient._

Zayn has to be the least spontaneous person on the face of the Earth. He likes it when things are organized and planned and neat and... You get the idea. Besides,  _what could be more important than meeting with her severely damaged patient?_

 

+

 

“Zayn, Zayn, Zayn, Zayn,” he heard Niall's voice coming from above him.

He turned on his side a little, propping his head with his pillow, so that he could look at Niall, who'd just interrupted his important afternoon nap –he had to sleep during the day, if he couldn't at night.

 

He stared at Niall, but the boy didn't continue, just smiled insanely bright.

The boy'd been doing that more and more frequently; he stopped talking so that Zayn had to say, “Yes?” or “And?”, but it was not going to work, so he just kept looking at Niall without saying a word.

 

The blonde eventually gave in. “I heard you weren't feeling well today, so I thought I'd cheer 'ya up.”

And that had to be the worst thing about this place; how everybody knew everything, before there was even anything to know.

 

He moved, so that he was laying on his back, his eyes focused on the ceiling above his bed.

“Okay,” Niall said, dragging out the a. “So, someone I'd very much like for you to meet is coming by tomorrow.”

“What, like Greg did last week?” Zayn also gave in, running out of patience.

“Hey, don't be mean,” Niall said as he frowned and moved across their room to sit on his own bed. “Just because Greg's a figment of my imagination or whatever, doesn't mean he didn't come to visit. Me and him had a lovely time catching up, thank you very much.”

 

Niall kept getting shocked that Zayn actually spoke to him, even if only because of the occasional yes, no and maybe at first, but in five months, he had gotten so used to it, he completely forgot he was an exception, that Zayn didn't speak to anyone else. It stopped being a big deal in after week or two.

 

“Niall, you convinced me your imaginary brother was coming to visit you,” Zayn reminded him. “Not cool man. I gave you my dessert 'cause you were so stressed.” He still can't believe he thought Greg was real. What he could believe though, was that he was not falling for that again.

 

“Mope all you want, but Harry's real and Jackie just told me he's coming back,” Niall was laying down too at this point, probably tired himself. “She didn't seem happy about it though. Dunno why really, Harry's an ace guy.”

_ Maybe because if the guy actually exists, him coming back to a mental institute was not a good thing; it's never a good thing. _

 

+

 

Sleep was unattainable for Zayn apparently. He had managed get a good 5 hour 'power-nap' during the day, but that did not mean he couldn't sleep for another 10 or 12 hours.

 

The more time he had spent in this place, the less sleep he got. It wasn't completely his fault though.

Amanda had her 'episodes' at around 2 in the morning, so that was when he woke up, if he was actually lucky enough to fall asleep by then.

 

Everybody was used to it, not bothered by the sudden explosion of her screaming and shouting; Niall didn't even twitch when her 'episode' started. He was like that too. He'd used to be able to sleep through just about everything, but that'd slightly changed.

 

As if the haunting realization that he was gonna have to come to turns with what'd happened and what he'd done wasn't enough, the sleepless nights and Amanda's pain filled loud pleas, made sleep vanish in the air. 

 

He'd at least managed to stay in his bed 'till 6 in the morning, which was a record for him by far.

After he put on a jumper, as he didn't want to walk around bare chested –he knows he's good looking, but confidence is not something he's inherited with his good looks –he turned and looked at Niall's sleeping form.

 

The boy was laying on his back, arms and legs spread away from his body, his mouth open with a little saliva drooling out the corner, as he snored lightly, but surely.

 

It was eerie, really, how someone could be so carefree while they had so much to deal with as Niall.

It may not have been as eerie though, as it made Zayn jealous.

 

He has problems –he is in a mental institute for fuck's sake– but they're nothing like Niall's, who had to ask himself every minute of everyday, if what he was seeing and feeling was actually real.

Come to think of it, he'd rather see what'd happened was a figment of his imagination than reality, with which he was gonna have to live with. But it was too early in the morning to think about that.

 

He was standing in the bathroom when he sighed as he ducked his head down to wash toothpaste out of his mouth. _It's gonna be a long day._

 

Lakeshore was a beautiful place. The size of it just right in Zayn's eyes. It was an old, two storey brick building, with huge windows and lovely 'backyardish' surroundings.

There was a reception area when you walked into the house or down the stairs, but no one was ever there, as in never, since they didn't really admit new patients. Well...

 

A nurse's station was right there too, it was where everyone got their 'cocktails' if they needed them, and everybody did.

 

Next to it was the 'group' room, which Zayn pretty much completely dreaded. Patients meet there twice a week and discussed their 'problems' together. It's not that hard to figure out just why precisely he hated that room, is it?

 

The living room was completely opposite. In the five short months he'd been there, he'd managed to claim an armchair as his own. He spent most, if not all of his days in the old green one-seater, positioned next to the dark wood bookshelf, full of 19th century books, and two large windows. While he was sitting and reading, he could pretend to be content with being there and being 'okay'. It was one of his favourite spots, but he'd never say that aloud, seeing as it was his favourite place particularly because that's where him and Dr Stygian had their meetings. (She thought it'd be a more fitting location than her office.)

 

The dining room wasn't that high on the list of his favourite places there. He didn't sleep well –or at all, so he didn't feel well most of the time, which didn't do exactly any wonders for his appetite. It was also a place where one was expected to socialize and talk.

He sat with Niall, Louis and Liam when they ate, since they were all roughly the same age and, he has to admit, he didn't mind it _at all_ _;_ anyone looked like a social butterfly next to Liam, even if one didn't talk.

 

At 20 past 6 o'clock, he found himself making a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Now, if Lakehsore were a 'normal' kind of institute, he imagines such behaviour wouldn't have been allowed, but as Zayn had managed to see, no one and nothing was normal there. 

The two cooks were kind enough to let pretty much everyone except Nicky and sometimes Louis to the back to make tea or coffee, though it probably had less to do with the cooks being nice, than it did with them not having enough time to make tea and lunch simultaneously.

 

Nonetheless… He poured the steaming coffee into what had become his mug and started his way outside.

 

Besides reading, sitting outside was his favourite pass-time. For some reason, for which Zayn has neither the want or need to understand, everyone –even Niall, had left him alone when he was outside. It's not as if they had bombard him when he was reading or anything, yet no one came near him when he was out, sitting at one of the three tables, just as he was, with his mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

 

The air wasn't as cold as he thought it would be at 6 in the morning, with just the first rays of sunshine appearing in the sky. It was fucked up, how he became so used to being there in such a short time that the thought of leaving, of getting back to his normal life was slightly terrifying. He can't even remember when he'd become such an optimist, because it wasn't like his stay there had a 'best before' date. Leaving was never a sure thing. For all he knew, the doctors could've decide he wasn't fit to function beyond the walls of Lakeshore and he wouldn't have disagreed, because he didn't want to leave, he didn't want to have an opportunity to hurt anyone else.

 

This, the outside, for a change, had not become 'his place,' but that was mostly due to the fact he moved around too much. He already knew he was going to walk around the lake and around the back of the house after he drank his coffee and smoked those two cigarettes. He is a man of settled rituals after all. _Plan ahead, think ahead and there'll be less things to surprise you,_ sort of crap.

 

You don't have to tell Zayn that that's overboard or that he sounded down right sad, because he knows.

_ He _ 'd told him  _many_ times, and yet,  _he_ loved Zayn despite it. Probably because of it.

He may have skipped the reason why he liked coming out here to just sit or walk around for a bit. It was, well, kinda stupid.

 

He thought of this as  _their_ time. Slowly, but, maybe not all that explicitly, he had begun to grasp just what his life will look like from  _that_ moment on. No lazy Sundays spent under the covers together. No strolls through the sleeping streets at 3 in the morning. Never again will  _he_ make the pouting face  _he_ perfected when Zayn lit a cigarette while in bed. Never again will they share a bed, either as a place to simply be next to one another, so that they weren't able to tell which limb was whose, or as a place where they'd become one,  _him_ breathing in Zayn's scent while hovering over his smaller form and Zayn's fingertips remembering every curve of  _his_ back's muscles.

 

He knew there was no painless way to get over it, to get over _him_ _,_ so he was doing it in his own way, the only way he knew how: slowly, with patience and almost no grace, clenched fists and red dots, but it was what he knew, what he'd become so used to. Reminiscing about the past had been by far the hardest and yet best things he's had to do in his life.

 

He wanted to tell Dr Stygian he was actually making progress. He could picture _him_ in his head without vomiting, which was definitely an improvement from the first time he'd tried to do so. He even thought about telling Niall, but the boy worried too much about Zayn as it was. 

 

It was hard, not being able to talk to Dr Stygian, but he's come to realize that him being mute wasn't exactly a conscious choice.

He didn't know why talking with Niall was becoming less and less of an obstacle and more and more of an _okay, I can do this_ , when just thinking about talking to anyone else would have definitely made him throw up.

 

And yes, he had thought about keeping a journal, but thinking about _him_ and reminiscing about the past is one thing. Having everything in black and white is another. He didn't think he'd be able to pick the pen up, let alone write with it.

 

He liked thinking about _them_ while he was outside, because his mind could wonder to those moments he'll cherish in his heart forever, without focusing on them completely; he could think about what he tastes like and all the while enjoy the tree's reflections in the deep green of the small lake.

_ It really is beautiful,  _ was his last thought as he turned to his right to walk around the house.

 

He'd no idea what he'd do 'till everyone wakes up at around 8. _I've absolutely nothing to do,_ he thought as he kept on walking to the front of the house.

 

_It's a nice place._ He doubts he'd be able to relax like he'd had in a bigger, more occupied house.

There was eight of them, with an extra empty bed, _which will presumably remain empty, since it's in Liam's room._

 

Lakeshore was known as one of the best and more private institutes in America, which meant not exactly everyone was from Tennessee. Niall wasn't even from America, he was across the 'big' pond, from Ireland. Zayn wasn't from around there either, he'd lived in California until now. Born and raised in California; where _they_ met, where _they_ had their first date, where _they_ moved in together, where _they_ lived, where everything happened.

 

Not just anyone could get a spot at Lakeshore and not just because there weren't any spots left.

Zayn was lucky his parents had more, as in a lot, as in too much money. They haven't always seen eye to eye, his parents and him. Well, his dad and him. He's always been his mother's favourite, but don't tell that to his three sisters if you know what's good for 'ya. It was only fair though, since they were complete daddy's girls. 

 

Basically, his dad pulled some strings, 'donated' some money to Lakeshore and voilà, he was in.

He has to remember to thank him when he gets out.

 

The walk was what he needed and since coffee hasn't ever had an effect on him, he smoked another cigarette and went to sit in his armchair to rest. When he sat down, he looked over at the bookcase, thinking about which book to read. _I'm gonna run out of books soon_ , he thought as his eyelids became heavy, a struggle to keep them opened. 

 

It took all of 2 seconds for him to fall asleep –a first.

 

+

 

“What do you mean Niall's got a room-mate? Who is he?” was what woke him up. He wanted to scream, to shout, to take someone's head off. It was the first time since he'd come to this stupid fucking house that sleep had been good –empty, thoughtless, dreamless, without _him_ , and someone woke him up. He stayed motionless, nonetheless, hoping whoever was talking would just fucking leave –or die in the next second, both would have been fine.

 

“Is Li up yet?” he heard the same person ask, though softer, quieter.

The voice'd gone from raspy and mean to soothing and calming with only a hint of that rasp, and it made Zayn sink further into the armchair, for some reason finding it comforting, an emptiness taking over, before he had the chance to realize he'd never heard that voice before.

 

+

 

When he was woken up again some time later, he couldn't have brought himself to be mad. Mostly because he felt well rested and everyone seemed to be awake and in the dining room, a noise of voices floating into his ear from the right being a good indication of that, except for Peter's voice of course.

 

Peter was sitting next to him, explaining how his mornings were like when he was in 'Nam. He must've not noticed Zayn'd been asleep.

 

“Mhmm,” Zayn hummed to make Peter feel like he had been paying attention.

He extended out his arms and legs, closing his eyes shut as he flexed his muscles when a small yelp left his lips, just like it always does when he stretches in the morning.

 

He turned his head to look at Peter, who was smiling brightly at him. “It's 9 you know. You should go eat something.”

Zayn smiled in return and nodded once in thanks as he got up and started his way to the kitchen.

 

It was strange, how he felt so happy and so sad for someone at the same time. _Peter is one of the good ones,_ he thought, still smiling. _He doesn't deserve this._

 

The dining room was just like he had imagined. Everyone was there; eating, drinking or just exchanging small-talk. He made his way to the counter to get himself a piece of bread and an apple –the breakfast he'd gotten so used to, starting the day without it would be odd, before he even had the chance to glance at their table.

 

Before he got to their usual spot, he stopped in his tracks, frowning, because someone who he'd never seen was sitting in his spot next to Niall. He wanted to do something, to ask who the guy was, why he was there and why no one had told him he was sitting in Zayn's spot. Making a big deal about it without uttering a single word though, would've been too much of a struggle, so he kept frowning, going to sit next to who he hoped was Louis. 

 

He sat down, not taking a moment to glance at either Niall or Louis, just staring at his food as if he was hoping he'd find something on the peal of the green apple in front of him. But then again, no one seemed to notice he even sat down; Niall was talking to the intruder and Louis was playing with his cereal.

 

When he finally looked up he saw he wasn't the only one that had been frowning. This guy was looking at him from under his brows, whereas for instance Niall simply smiled widely at him –Louis was still busy with not eating.

 

“Ahem,” the guy cleared his throat as he kept looking at Zayn, who could feel the burn of his eyes at the top of his had, but the boy just cleared his throat again.

He had no idea who this guy was, but he made it on to Zayn's 'People I shouldn't be around for their own safety' list in a matter of a cough. It made Zayn's left hand clench in the fabric of his jeans under the table.

 

For some reason, which was fairly clear and common by now, Zayn felt like he was about to explode. _This guy, whoever he might be, better watch his attitude or he's in for a fucking treat._

 

But it was as if the guy with a head of curls knew precisely what Zayn was thinking, yet he chose, he clearly chose to ignore it completely.

“And you'd be who exactly?” Curls asked as he put his spoon down, apparently done with eating his oatmeal for the moment.

“This is Zayn. He's sort of new,” Niall answered hesitantly, making Zayn lift his head and smile at the Irish lad. “He's my room-mate. Oh, and Zayn, this is Harry.”

 

Zayn's eyes darted from Niall to Harry and back to Niall, making him look absolutely insane –or at least a bit confused.

“Told ya,” Niall added under his breath.

 

Harry turned his head to look at Niall, clearly pissed off at something, judging by the harsh lines on his before soft face. “I know he's new and I know he's your room-mate,” Harry was the one looking slightly insane then as he turned back to look at Zayn, shooting daggers from his eyes. “What I don't know is why he's sitting at our table and why you're apparently his spokes person.”

 

Zayn was sure his nails were dug deep in the flesh of his thigh then, as he kept looking from Harry to Niall, still unsure if he should've gotten up and walked away or if he should've made Harry shut the fuck up. In reality, the first was never really an option though.

 

It was like a switch had been balanced between on and off for two months and suddenly, without any warning, Harry'd just flipped it on.

It felt as if his blood was boiling in his veins, as if someone'd set a fire in his lungs and at the same time, poured ice water in his throat.

 

His mind drifted. It went from slight anger, to rage, to something he doesn't even know what to call, and all in less than a second.

Before everything got dark and silent, a halcyon wave washed over him as he realised he'd only ever felt this once before. Just once. Five months ago to be more exact.

 

He was numb, everything was red and black and white and nothing. Everything was just gone. Everything, except for that thing he can't quite place. It was like a burning in the back of his head.

 

It was worse five months ago though. He was aware of it this time, he knew what was happening. He knew what was about to happen, even if that was the only thing he was aware of, even if that was his only thought as his consciousness slipped away from his reach. 

 

Last time, he didn't know, or he did, but he just doesn't remember. Last time, he blacked out for what he still doesn't know how long. What he does know, is that something happened and then he woke up in a room with someone watching him, unable to move his arms or legs, not being able to even lift his head. That's everything and anything that he reme mbers from that first time –nothing.

 

He wasn't even aware he was standing up and walking around the table, towards Harry, until he heard his name being called out.

“Zayn!” 

It was Dr Stygian.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How have you been?” Dr Stygian asked, sitting in the armchair next to Zayn.  
> A lot has happened since the first time we sat here, he thought, still stuck somewhere in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a side note, but I'd just like to say updates are definitely not gonna be up here as fast as this and I do apologize for any waiting in advance.
> 
> Enjoy! and thank you for reading.

Dr Stygian's voice carried loud and clear from the middle of the living room. Zayn had never seen that expression on her before, she didn't even seem capable of having such a pained and angered face. He's never seen it again in and he can honestly say that he never wants to, because it wasn't her voice that brought him back, it was her face.

Seeing her face for that split second when he turned around made him wake up, grabbing onto the then and there he was in.

Though while hearing her call out his name and seeing her standing there while everyone stared at him expressionless, may have been enough to slightly pull him out of his state, it sure as fuck wasn't enough to deter him from his plan. He was going to fuck this guy up, whether she liked it or not.

Of course, he hadn't thought about Paul, the head of the massive 'nurses' who took care of peace and 'sanctity' of Lakeshore.

Before he was even able to take another step, he was in Paul's grip, the man's hands clasped hard on his elbows, keeping him still in his place. Zayn thought Paul's hands would feel cold, rough, callus, icy even, with hatred or anger, but no. Paul's hands were soft, careful, _warm_. He had a strong, yet gentle hold on Zayn's arms, not letting him move.

Nonetheless, Harry's expression was priceless, even if Zayn did know what was about to happen. Harry looked scared as if it was him who Paul was holding, which made Zayn smirk a little, but there was something else mixed in the boy's panic. Zayn thought he was imagining it, his mind in a blur of emotions, the adrenaline rushing through his veins playing tricks on him, but the boy looked genuinely concerned.

Everything else that fallows is a little blurry. He remembers Jackie standing by his and Paul's side, hearing her say “I'm sorry hun',” close to his ear as she gently inserted a needle in his vein.

And then nothing.

+

 

He hasn't gotten used to it. He'll never get used to it. It isn't the nothingness that took away his senses and washed over him with calm waves of arduous sinew, it's a terrifying abyss of nothing.

White noise; no sound, no smell, no feeling, no thoughts; nothing. It wasn't calm, it was blinding. It was the only thing that brought him out of the red. It wasn't what he wanted, it was what he needed. And waking up and out of it was a bitch.

It felt as if his head was massive, his heartbeat clear in his ears, as he felt his stomach contract painfully.

He was laying in bed, but he was positive it wasn't his own. It didn't smell right, the sheet's sent filled with chemicals. It was also painfully uncomfortable.

_ Great _ , he thought.  _ I must be in the nurse's house. _

Although three nurses were always present at the house, the others stayed in the house five minutes away, pass the tiny lake. They made new patients sleep in this house for the first night or two to get them accustomed to the new surroundings and to explain the rules and such, before they got to apply them at the house.

He hadn't opened his eyes, yet he didn't have to to know someone else was in the room, sitting next to him. _You're never alone when you're in this house._

He wished it was Paul and hoped it might be Jackie, but the familiar sound of pen on paper and the flowery essence mixing with the chemical smell of the room were enough for him to know Dr Stygian was the one next to his bed.

He'd been so good for five moths, he thought the rage blackouts he was diagnosed with, along with other make-belief sounding disorders, was just a one time thing. Apparently not.

He didn't understand how or why he went from being slightly angered or just barely pissed off, to that.

Confusion, panic, anger; those weren't the emotions that kept Zayn awake at night, though they should have been. He was scared.

Scared of his doctors thinking he was okay or cured, letting him go and then it happening again. Scared of the slightest thing that would make him go into the all-consuming fire that burns in his soul. Scared he'd hurt someone again. He was scared he'd get hurt again.

He turned on his back, his arms aligned with his body on top of the covers and opened his eyes. He could hear Dr Stygian shifting in her seat, realising he was awake, but he didn't look at her. He wasn't ready to see the disappointment he expected to be clear on her face.

He wanted to be better; if not for himself, for her, aware of just how much hope Dr Stygian had for him, he wanted to get over this stupid disorder or whatever it might've been.

“Zayn,” Dr Stygian said as softly as she could, but Zayn couldn't take it.

He brought his hands to his face, palms covering his eyes as quiet sobs escaped his mouth. He wanted to be better so badly, he couldn't take it. _How, why did I lose it? What made me go overboard? Harry didn't even do anything._

This thing, this primal need to keep everything locked up and sealed away from everybody was beginning to turn into such a heavy weight, it slowly became harder and harder to breathe, but it was a weight he himself placed on his chest. Even if it wasn't a conscious action, it was his; he locked himself down and he sealed himself off from everything just in case there was a possibility he could be hurt again.

“Zayn,” she said again, as he heard her stand up. Before she sat down on the edge of the bed, she carefully placed her palms over his knuckles, waiting for a moment before she lifted his bigger hands away, uncovering his face.

He was sure his eyes were red, puffy and still watery, but since his hands were in hers, resting on her lap, he let it go, not caring how he looked in the moment, enjoying the comforting feeling of warm, soft hands covering his own.

“First of all,” she started intently. “What happened was _not_ your fault. I know-. We all know it's not something you can control.”

Zayn finally brought his eyes to meet hers, being quite pleasantly surprised. She was smiling. She wasn't angry or disappointed, she was smiling at him with nothing but kindness.

Pushing his lips to turn up a little, he smiled back at her, trying to convey just how much this meant to him.

“But,” she said and hesitated, squeezing his hand a little. “You have to realise that you'll have days where you'll feel better, and you'll have days where you'll want to die. Both are okay. There is no magical cure Zayn. You just need to close your eyes, and trust that the waves will pass, and soon, you'll be able to live again.”

“You're fucking kidding me, right?” violently escaped from his mouth, his eyes shot wide open, his hands slipping from her grip, already covering his mouth.

Neither of them moving or breathing, they just stared widely at each other.

“Zayn, you-,” she said, trying to find words, though coming up with nothing for once.

His eyes still wide open, he shook his head from left to right, not knowing what else to do. His body was tense, his heart beating in a fast pace while Dr Stygian looked as if she didn't know whether to smile or frown. She was doing a little of both and honestly, it was unsettling.

“Okay,” she said, as she took a deep breath. “Let's not make a big deal about this.”

Though she clearly was. She was a second away from jumping up and down. Now, she might've been excited to hear him speak for the very first time, but excitement was not what he was feeling.

There were flashes of red dancing in front of his eyes, as if a match was being lit. The feeling he could never quite place was coming back, even if his body felt drained of all energy, sedatives still in his veins, he doubted he could've waited any longer for days to get better, because there were already too many days where he wanted to end it all, too tired to keep going, to keep holding on.

As he felt everything slowly turning red, he grabbed her hand again and squeezed, trying to make her understand. Her expression quickly turned from happiness to worry, her eyes searching his face to see what was wrong.

“Breathe,” he heard someone say from the doorway with a calm and soothing voice.

He wanted to see who it was, who this person was, because his voice seemed to be the blue to his horrible red, the ice to the fire burning in his head. As if someone was pouring water on his fire, the red started to slowly dissipate, floating away with that voice.

But he still couldn't move. Not couldn't, more like didn't want to, just in case. Staying still had been the one thing Dr Stygian had told him to do. That and to focus on one small, simple thing, so he did what he'd always do, intertwining his fingers in his lap, concentrated on how they overlapped.

“What are you doing here?” Dr Stygian asked harshly, but Zayn still didn't feel that looking up would be such a good idea, but then again, he didn't have to, because it became clear in the next second who it was that had been standing in the doorway, whose voice it had been to calm him down.

“I came here to check if Zayn was okay and… I came here to apologize.”

“Harry, I really don't think that's a-,” she tried to say, but Zayn cut her off by reaching for her hand, trying to say _it's okay_.

She looked at him with a questioning look, to which he simply replied with a small nod.

She also nodded once, stood up and started to walk out of the room, though Zayn could tell she wasn't sure about it and he couldn't've blamed her. He was here because of Harry in the first place, but, he wanted to hear what the boy had to say.

Just as Harry took a step inside the room, she stopped and turned around, looking from Harry to Zayn.

“If you won't feel comfortable, I want you to call me,” she said.

“I will,” Harry replied without missing a beat.

She looked at him incredulously, “I wasn't talking to you.”

Zayn was still smirking when Harry sat down in the chair on the right side of his bed, the boy's back facing the only barred window in the room. He was beginning to _really_ like Dr Stygian.

Turning to look at Harry, he was again surprised. The boy looked out of place and uncomfortable; pulling on the sleeves of his oversized blue-grey jumper. _He really does have luscious curly hair,_ which was falling over his eyes a little –he needs a haircut.

“I don't really…,” Harry started to say, but he almost looked as if he was in pain with trying to find what to say. “Sorry, not so good with apologies, I guess.”

Zayn wanted to smile to comfort the boy, but he didn't. _Why should I?_ Harry knew nothing about Zayn and yet he pushed him. _Who the fuck does that to a committed mental patient? Shouldn't that be a clear indicator of how to interact with someone?_

So he didn't smile.

“I'm sorry, okay?” Harry said as he looked up and at Zayn with hope in his eyes, shifting in his seat a little.”I know I overstepped or whatever, I just-. I guess I didn't like how you sort of took my place here.”

Zayn was lost. He raised an eyebrow, making sure he looked as confused as he actually was, so that Harry would elaborate a little more.

The boy got the gist. “Well, I'm the one everyone loves here, the damaged one that doesn't look all that damaged, you know?”

Zayn's eyebrow was still raised.

“I don't know,” Harry started again with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. The boy's movement made the sleeve of his jumper raise up a little and _fuck_. Zayn didn't expect that. He hoped this selective mutism of his had helped him control his expressions better, not showing what he felt or thought. And as Harry continued, his hand back on his lap and still looking down, Zayn relaxed a little. “I guess I didn't expect anyone new to come here.”

_ Ditto,  _ Zayn thought.

“So yeah, I'm sorry I was an ass,” Harry looked up at him, a hopeless, tired smile on his face. “I hope that, you know, we can start over, since we're gonna be stuck here for a while.”

Zayn honestly didn't have to forgive Harry for anything. _Was Harry a complete and utter ass? Yes. Did he have a lot of shit to deal with himself? Yes._ No one was perfect, especially at Lakeshore, so he didn't expect Harry to be either.

So, Zayn looked at him, nodding once and because he was feeling a lot better, he extended his hand.

Harry seemed lost then, yet he still met Zayn's hand with his own, though he was clearly unsure of what Zayn wanted. Zayn simply shook their hands up and down once, smiling, to which Harry replied with a small smile of his own.

Dr Stygian came to the room right as their hands parted, with a stern frown on her face. It changed, though not by much, when she saw they were both still alive.

“Time for you to leave,” she said looking at Harry, before she turned to look at Zayn with a much softer expression. “Both of you.”

_ Wow, _ Zayn thought.  _This was fast._

“He gets to leave already?” Harry asked happily, his voice high pitched.

“I think he's ready to go back,” she said smiling. “There's no reason for you to stay here. If you need to sleep, you can do so in your own bed.”

And that was it. He got dressed and got going, though not as excitedly as it sounds. He'd have loved to sleep, but since he was out of it for a whole day, he was quite rested, finally, so going back to reading was nothing to get excited about.

Still, he felt being alone was the next best thing to do if he couldn't sleep, so yeah, he did go to his room. Niall wasn't there, which, with no subtext, was a relief. He'd done enough –too much– of talking for the day.

He must've been laying in his bed for two or three hours, doing absolutely nothing, whilst his thoughts ran wild in his head. He did get up twice though, but only because he went to smoke on the balcony him and Niall had in their room –a blessing.

That night was horrible. He couldn't sleep, couldn't even close his eyes, so he ended up walking around for half the night, the other half spent restless in his bed.

 

_ + _

 

Group time wasn't all that bad the first and second time.

When Zayn got to Lakeshore, they kept him heavily medicated, you know, just in case. They soon found out he wasn't an actual threat, at least not all the time, so they stopped giving him whatever it was they were drugging him with.

The drug didn't really keep him calm or sedated in such a way, where he'd be unable of doing everyday things and he highly doubted they would've suppressed the redness if it came to that. They did keep him mellow and made him a little sleepy, but that was about it, though he definitely wouldn't've been able to operate heavy machinery. It just made him even less prone to conversations –to listen to them that is–, any social activities or to interact with people. He kind of liked it.

It was nothing like what Jackie gave him when he slightly lost it the last time –that was a drug.

So 'group' only got worse and worse, because even if no one ever pushed him to talk during group, Zayn still had a feeling there might be a possibility that 'today is going to be the day' he'd have to talk. It was unnerving really, when whichever shrink had 'group' would look at him with expectation, hoping he'd say something –anything. It might've been in his head, but he did feel like that during every group time.

Why they were hoping so badly he'd talk, was beyond his understanding. It's not like he would've said anything smart or ground-breaking, it's not like he'd have developed some new philosophical theory. If it were to happen, if that actually happened, he was more likely to do it out of frustration, something like what'd happened with him and Niall or him and Stygian. So nothing great should have been expected.

He wasn't able to punch that to the back of his brain, to stop reliving it. _You're fucking kidding me, right?_ And all it took for him to open his mouth, was Dr Stygian saying it'll get better, that he'll see the light, that his wounds will heal, that he'll stop drowning. He hopes, _prays_ she was kidding.

It was Nicky's turn to –not to sound mean or hurtful, but– blab about her life and all that went wrong in it. Since day one he hadn't been paying attention to anything she said during group or otherwise, so he isn't able to tell you what exactly went wrong in her self-titled miserable life, he only knew _something_ did.

He was sitting next to her, so it would've been expected for him to share his 'life-story' when she finished, but it's wasn't, not really. It felt like it, but it still wasn't. If there was one thing Dr Stygian had told him, day in and day out, is that no one expected him to talk, though she might've changed her mind since he actually did talk last time. _It's not like I care._

See, lying to oneself can be quite (counter-)productive and it was for Zayn. He can convince himself into anything if only his sheer power of will is strong enough, and well, it is. _He_ couldn't quite believe it, not until _he_ saw it with _his_ own eyes.

Zayn had, and very intently at that, convinced himself he had no chance with  _him_ . Even when  _he_ asked Zayn out, Zayn still thought it was a joke or something. There was no imaginable way that  _he'_ d actually go out with Zayn. And yet, Zayn still showed up at the bar, he just never expected  _him_ to ever show up too. He fully convinced himself that he was gonna go to the bar, drink a beer or two and leave, head low with a possible tear in his eye, but no, he barely had the chance to order that beer, when  _he_ sat next to him on one of the bar stools, smiling and seemingly excited.

They talked, or rather  _he_ did, Zayn just listened to every single thing he had to say, from time to time adding one of his stories or opinions. They talked for hours, easily, with no awkward pauses or Zayn making a fool of himself. It was comfortable, Zayn was genuinely comfortable just sitting there, at the bar, his first beer in his hand even if it had been there for 2 hours maybe. He was even comfortable when  _he_ suggested they go for a walk if Zayn'd like and he did, he did like that idea.

He liked it even more when he was laying in his bed that night, thinking about how  _he_ moved  _his_ legs on the railing attached on the bar when they were sitting, how  _he_ asked him out on a second date because it was fun and  _he_ wanted to do it again, how  _his_ nostrils moved the perfect amount when  _he_ laughed, when Zayn made  _him_ laugh.

_ He _ had this tic which Zayn picked up on immediately, though he doubted  _he_ knew about it.  _He_ had two rings on  _his_ fingers; one on  _his_ left ring finger, though nothing fancy, just a seemingly unimportant silvery black metal ring, whereas the other was on  _his_ right index finger, but this one wasn't as simple. It was made of this gold-ish metal that looked vintage to Zayn's eye, glowing in honey coloured tones with a black scratch here or there. He focused on the ring every time  _he_ took a sip, raising  _his_ hand up, in front of Zayn's face.

Every time  _he_ 'd think about something, like when  _he_ needed a second to remember the name of  _his_ first room-mate – Franky,  _he'd_ twirl that ring on  _his_ index finger, the ring Zayn found soon enough  _he_ never took off, not even when  _his_ index was knuckle deep inside Zayn – not even then.

So even if  _he_ 'd asked Zayn out on a second date, even if that date was followed by many more and even when Zayn almost lived in  _his_ apartment because it had a bigger balcony, he still thought it all had a date of expiration on it, not knowing  _he_ was the one with the date of expiry. Lying to oneself  _can_ be productive, just not in Zayn's case.

Zayn was, is and will always be the fantasy kind of person, respectively. It's just that he'd create these scenarios about the future that was ahead of him in his head, not caring how wildly fictional they sometimes were or how close to the truth he managed to get here and there.

Every fantasy he created in his head that night, after what Zayn called 'just two guys talking, having drinks and then walking 'round for a bit' was close to being real, even if he'd tried to convince himself they were and forever will be only fantasies. He doesn't know if he's happy they turned into reality or not, especially now.

“Um, well, I guess I'm back,” he heard. Again it was this raspy, deep voice that brought him out of his memories, realizing his fingers had been playing with the necklace he never takes off, not even when he showers. “I dunno, nothing new's happened I guess.”

Zayn turned his head to the seat next to him which was occupied by Harry, who was looking disheveled and confused? Maybe not confused, maybe he seemed just on edge a little, restless, yeah, he looked restless.

“Harry,” Dr Torp said, obviously annoyed. “If nothing new's happened, then why are you here?”

Zayn only saw a flash or red when he quickly intertwined his fingers, focusing on each one for a second before moving to the next as he tried to breathe in and out, in and out. _Not again_ , he thought. _Not again, not so soon._

He could feel Harry shift in his seat, so that the boy was sitting an inch closer to him. Zayn coughed a little, trying to release the last of his tension, when he looked up, only to see Harry watching him intently when he spoke.

“That's not what I meant,” Harry said, his eyes still on Zayn before he shifted again to look at Dr Torp. “Of course _something_ 's happened, I just meant like, life wise you know? I haven't met anyone new, my dad's still my dad, my mum is still my mum, so life wise, nothing's happened.”

Dr Torp looked at Harry with a raised eyebrow, not really believing any of it. “Okay. Anything else you want to share with us?”

She said it in a way where you could tell she didn't want to listen to Harry any more, already fed up with his story, which honestly made Zayn confused. Weren't they all there because of that? So that everyone could listen to each other's stories? To share? And Dr Torp sounded like she wanted Harry to just be silent.

“Um, no?”

“Good.”

_ Wow. _

He thought it was impossible, but after that particular time, he hated 'group' even more.

 

+

 

“How have you been?” Dr Stygian asked, sitting in the armchair next to Zayn.

_ A lot has happened since the first time we sat here _ , he thought, still stuck somewhere in his head. He doesn't know –but hopes he does– if she actually expected him to answer, but he simply half-heartedly shrugged, his eyes still piercing the window in front of them, picturing he was anywhere else but there.

“I've noticed and I hope I'm right, that you're quite fond of our Harry,” she said, bringing Zayn to there and then, turning his head to look at her. “Now, I'm not suggesting anything, don't get me wrong, I simply think it shows that you're getting slowly better. And no,” she added with a smile after a second. “I am not kidding.”

He couldn't help it, he smiled at that. 

But, it's not that he was fond of Harry _per se_ , it's that the guy was okay. He hadn't pushed Zayn again, not after that first time and he hadn't, not even once, insinuated that he needed or had to talk, which was all Zayn could ask from a person, plus, it looked as if Harry thought Zayn was okay too.

When Zayn went to read and sit in the comfortable green armchair, Harry would sit next to him with music playing in his earphones and Zayn simply presumed it was a little bit because Harry thought Zayn'd like some company, which wasn't completely inaccurate.

It was nice. It was even nicer when Harry woke up at 5 this morning and came to join Zayn outside, where he'd always be alone. Even if they just sat at one of the benches, both slowly sipping their coffees while Zayn smoked cigarettes in silence, it was nice.

Before, when he was speaking and everything was sort of okay, _they_ would sit on their balcony every morning, doing the same thing he did with Harry, and _they_ did it in silence too.

That's when Zayn knew, that's when he gave up and threw away every reservation he might've had, every fantasy or lie he'd told himself. When _they_ spent _their_ first morning together like that, he knew that _he_ was the person he was gonna spend the rest of his life with. No reasons, no rationalizations, no fantasies; he just knew.

“It's not just your progress though,” she said, gazing out the window, but not being as calm as she sounded. “It's a big step for Harry too.”

_ I wouldn't know. _

Harry seemed to know everyone, but as in, he knew everything about everyone, even Zayn; where everyone was from, what everyone liked or disliked. He knew how to talk to everyone too. Zayn almost couldn't believe it actually.

The first time he went to the dining area after he'd been released back into the main house, he was, to say the least, shocked, to find Harry and Liam chatting away while they ate breakfast. Yeah, Liam, talking to another human being. Comfortably looking at Harry, in his eyes as Liam's own almost disappeared with his soft and quiet laughter. It was a sight to see, a sight he didn't want to interrupt, so he took his apple and went to eat it outside, in the morning sun.

Seeing Liam talk to Harry as if the boy had no pre-existing problems was disturbing in a way, because it made Zayn feel as if he walked in on himself talking to Harry. It was a sight to see, but maybe Harry was to Liam, what Niall had been to Zayn; an 'okay' area, a thing the boy was able to deal with. Maybe it was Liam's ways of feeling a little more sane than he actually was, just like Zayn.

He sat down on the first bench and ate all of two bites of his apple when Harry sat next to him, them being the only two outside. Zayn didn't look at Harry, he didn't have to. They both simply sat there, Zayn eating his apple, Harry sipping his coffee, as they gazed upon field after field of grass and flowers, a tree here and there. They started doing this ever since Harry joined him outside that early morning. They just sat there, both enjoying the peace and quiet that mornings had at Lakeshore.

But Zayn was unsettled this time, he wanted to ask how. He wanted to know how Harry'd managed to talk to Liam and how Liam had managed to talk to Harry when Liam would barely spare a glance for anyone else.

Zayn saw Harry shift and move on the bench, crossing his legs under him, so that he was more comfortable, as he took a quick breath.

“I guess he likes me,” Harry said, answering Zayn's unvoiced question. “I don't know. I am his room-mate, always have been, or at least since he came here. Maybe that's why?”

The easiness of Harry's words and voice had always seem to have had an effect on Zayn and it was no different this time, making him raise his knees on to the seat too, bringing them up to his chest as he leaned his cheek on them, looking at Harry.

Harry still had his eyes focused on the furthest points in the distance, still not really there. It was interesting in a way, how even though they had barely exchanged any words –especially on Zayn's part– Harry still seemed to be attuned to Zayn. He knew what Zayn wanted to ask, he knew Zayn actually didn't want to be alone when he was outside, at least not when he was sitting down, smoking or reading. Interesting.

And that was it. Harry knew why Louis 'split' because Louis had told him, he knew how to talk to Liam, because the boy trusted him, and he knew what Zayn wanted  to ask him, without him having to actually ask; whereas Zayn knew nothing about Harry. He'd no idea why the boy was at Lakeshore, this time or the previous time(s) –Zayn had a feeling it was more than once or twice. He didn't know when Harry got the scars on his wrists or why, and he wanted to know.

He wanted to know everything Harry did, had done, is planning on doing. He wanted to know Harry inside and out. Why? Because he felt like there was something to know, like Harry wasn't just what met the eye, like something was there, some content that Harry was trying to hide away and Zayn wanted to see it, but he realized that was far from being an actual possibility. The no talking thing was a bit of a set back when it came to, you know, talking and getting to know people.

Zayn was over it by then, he wasn't really bothered by not being able to talk any more, not really, except when he was frustrated that is, but that was becoming less and less of a problem since late.

Dr Stygian was still sitting in the armchair next to him when he came out of his reverie, writing something intently in her notes. That was also another time not talking was a bit of a hindrance, because he wanted to ask what she was thinking, to maybe try and help. She had this deep frown etched between her brows sometimes and it made Zayn slightly nervous, because it made her look younger, more innocent and nothing like what a psychiatrist should look as.

“Okay, so our time is up,” she said, closing all her notes and clicking her pen closed as she looked at him smiling. “Same time, same place, tomorrow?”

A nod. That's what he did. He nodded once and she was gone, walking towards her office, content. She too didn't seem to be bothered any more by him not talking, not that she ever seemed like that, really. And ironically, that was probably what he was bothered with most, her not minding he wasn't talking, or at least pretending as such.

“Hi,” he heard a familiar voice from behind him as he was still looking at Dr Stygian's leaving form.

“Harry, you're hogging my friend,” Niall complained the next second, as soon as Harry sat down in the now vacant armchair, leaving Niall to stand in front of them, hand on his hip.

Zayn turned around and eased back into his armchair, planning on spending his day right there, not paying much attention to either Niall or Harry.

“Um, excuse you. I'm not hogging anyone,” Harry fired back with a stern pout. “And even if I was, Zayn's my friend too, right?”

Zayn looked from one boy to the other in disbelief, Harry looked at Zayn with hope of a confirmation and Niall stared at Harry, though in his Niall way, not containing any malice.

They were fighting over him. No one had ever done that, no one ever wanted to be his friend that badly. He was honestly confused at how Harry was looking at him for some form of a sign –a nod or anything along those lines, while Niall looked confident, yet Zayn could still see a barely-there mischievous smirk on his face.

“But are you his best friend? I think not,” Niall accused since he saw Zayn wasn't responding to the question.

“No, I'm not, because I'm _your_ best friend dumb-ass.”

Zayn laughed at that. These two absolute idiots were preposterously stupid, but in the best possible way.

They were all laughing; Niall in his high pitched laugh, Harry's dimple as prominent as it had ever been and Zayn, his small puffs of air escaping his mouth, his tongue behind his teeth.

It was nice.

“Whatever. Come get me when you'll go eat lunch,” Niall said, walking towards the arch-way. “I'm gonna go play _Fifa_ with Louis... Or Tommo probably.”

Zayn half shrugged, because everyone knew Tommo was the competitive one that always 'appeared' when playing a game of any kind, and he, more than anything else, just wanted to continue reading Sartre where he left off last time. It's not like he was gonna be the one getting Niall and Tommo, because Tommo seemed to have a serious problem with Zayn and he just couldn't care less.

Maybe it was ironic that he was reading _No Exit_ in a mental institute while going through his own personal version of 'inner-hell', maybe it was even funny, but Zayn didn't notice then.

“You like reading, huh?” Harry asked, as he was trying to untangle his earphones.

Zayn shrugged again –something he did a lot– and nodded towards the boy's lap with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I love music. Takes my mind off of things,” Harry said, his fingers trying too hard to find the ends of the plastic white strings.

That was great, that Harry found his oasis in music, but it's not what Zayn meant with his nod, so he shook his head again, pointing his finger at Harry's phone.

“Oh,” the boy got it. “My phone? Yeah, I get to keep my phone. It's like a privilege thing, I guess.”

_ A privilege? Why would Harry get to keep his phone when everyone else's was taken away? Including mine. _

Zayn reached out his hand, grabbing Harry's phone from the boy's lap as Harry was focused on his job at hand. Once it was in front of him, his fingers almost couldn't have typed fast enough on the screen.

“Heey!” Harry complained lazily as Zayn was still typing away intently.

When finished, he gave the phone back, expressionless.

Harry looked at it for a second before he brought his eyes up to meet Zayn's. The boy's green orbs sparkled, a small smile playing on his pink lips. It was strange, how it made Zayn feel something, this feeling that had become almost like a memory of once upon a time, a fairytale he was positive could never actually happen. It was strange. It made him smile too.

“Hi back.” Harry said, making whatever Zayn was feeling even stronger, more potent almost, as he reached out his hand, asking for the phone again. This time, Harry handed it with no protest or whining noises, instead looking at Zayn's every move, following his fingers intently.

Zayn was still smiling. He had actually thought about carrying a notepad and pen with him, just so that he could write yes or no from time to time, a word here and there.

But –you shouldn't be surprised there's a but, because there's always a but– he knew people would get the wrong idea, asking him about every little thing, expecting him to 'talk', that was. God knows Dr Stygian would have thrown a party.

So he clicked on the notes application this time, instead of the new message one and started typing.

_ Harry, I hope I don't have to tell you or ask yo _ _ u to not share this with anyone. I'm not ready... _

He showed Harry the note, still holding the phone in his hand.

“Yeah, of course,” Harry said with a firm nod.

_ Thanks. Ha, you probably look proper crazy talking to yourself. Yeah... I think this might actually work though. _

This time, he gave the phone back, feeling that was enough communication for one day, since it was the most he'd 'talked' in five months –side from the chats with Niall.

Harry read the note, but he didn't look up at Zayn, he didn't even smile like Zayn expected he would –like he hoped he would. _Fuck, did I say something wrong?_

Zayn was completely taken aback when he saw Harry typing his own note. He didn't think Harry would want to type, he thought he'd want to talk, because well, he could. But no, Harry was typing away just as vigorously as Zayn had a minute ago, only he typed for a bit longer than Zayn had and Zayn was getting more worried by the passing of each second.

Harry finally stopped, stared at the phone's screen for a bit and handed Zayn the phone, still not looking at Zayn though.

_ I hope it does. I'd like to talk to you. You're a really good listener (no pun intended), but I'd like to hear or not really hear. You know what I mean... I'd like to hear what you have to say from time to time I think. _

_ p.s. I am proper crazy _

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't remember how he got there. He tried, but there was no memory of him waking outside, beyond the lake, further than the edge the trees made. He couldn't remember how he got there or why he'd go there. He also didn't care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should've mentioned it before, but I think some sort of trigger warnings apply here, not sure which though. If you're uncomfortable reading about metal illnesses, then I advise you to either read carefully or maybe avoid this story altogether.  
> I also want to say that mental illnesses are no joke and I am not trying or intending to make fun of the serious subject at hand. 
> 
> What I had also forgot to explain, is the fact that Nicky is a female version of Nick Grimshaw and Matty is a female version of Matthew Healy. Paul is well, Paul and nurse Jackie is nurse Jackie from Nurse Jackie. Peter is a completely fictional character, unless there actually is a demented Peter running around, claiming he's been in the Vietnam war.
> 
> Besides that, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you so, so much for reading!

It did. And he was.

 

“Niall, there's no reason for you to be jealous.”

“I'm not, okay? I'm not jealous,” Niall said as he was laying in his bed, his back facing Zayn. “I just don't like that you didn't tell me, but I'm not jealous.”

The thing is, him and Harry had started to really get along. About two weeks before Niall –and everyone else– had found out, him and Harry were texting pretty much all of the time. It was a shock to all of them; Niall and Co. because Zayn interacted with someone besides Niall, and to Zayn and Harry, because they were able to go undetected for two whole weeks.

Harry apparently actually had some sort of a privilege, which he used, of course, to get Zayn his own phone. It wasn't his actual old phone, but Zayn didn't want it to be, since the old one had too many memories in forms of texts and pictures.

His new one was completely empty, well, it was for the first minute at least.

The morning after the first time he 'talked' to Harry, he again woke up at 5 o'clock. It was getting tiresome; not sleeping was beginning to get frustrating and tiresome. All he needed was for insomnia to be added to his list of problems he had to deal with and his life would've been simply perfect.

But anyway, he got out of bed, brushed his teeth and went down stairs, just like every fucking morning, except that this time, there was a mug already on one of the dining room's tables. He walked closer to it, noticing slight steam coming out of the mug.

_ What? _ There was hot coffee in the mug. At 5 o'clock in the morning. Just there.

He looked around, but there was no one in the dining room and he hadn't gone passed anyone in the living room.  _Maybe someone made coffee and went back to bed?_

Coffee was coffee and if he was actually stealing anyone's fresh brew, he would've just made them a new pot, no problem.

 

So he took the mug, inhaling the rich aroma as he stepped outside, the sky still too dark to be awake, no sign of the sun. With both of his feet on the wooden porch, he took the much needed first sip of the perfectly warm black coffee –no sugar, no milk, just the way he liked it; strong.

He nearly died. First of all, because of the shock he thought would send his heart out of his ribcage and secondly, because he nearly chocked on the liquid going into his lungs. He started coughing, trying to send it down the right way, when Harry nearly well ran to him, the boy's hand already on his back.

“Sorry, sorry, I thought you saw me sitting out here,” Harry mumbled the words together, his hand still lightly tapping Zayn on his back.

Zayn started waving the boy away, pushing at his chest, as he tried to take a breath.

“I'm stopping, I'm stopping,” Harry backed off with his hands raised. “You sure you're okay?”

Zayn nodded and rolled his eyes as he finally took a seat, already tired because of this unneeded coughing fit.

“Sorry,” Harry said again and if Zayn had learnt anything about the boy, he would've said he looked embarrassed, as he held his own mug in his lap, his eyes piercing the porcelain.

Zayn extended his hand and placed it on the table between them, palm right side up. Zayn thought it was a long shot, but he hoped and thought Harry would get it. And he did.

“I actually have something for you,” the boy said, grinning brightly with his left hand in his jeans' pocket, making Zayn retrieve his hand back, you know, safe measures and all that. You can't ever be too sure, especially in  loony-bins.

It was pointless though, because Harry did do what Zayn wanted him to, putting a phone down on Zayn's half of the table.

Harry took a sip of his coffee with a smile on his lips while eyeing Zayn, which made him spill a couple more drops on his jumper. While Harry was whipping the drops away with his free hand, he was spilling new drops from the mug in his other hand, whispering curses under his breath, but Zayn still heard, laughing silently as he took the phone in his hands.

 

His immediate frown was met with Harry's immediate explanation.

“It's yours,” Harry said with a smile and a shrug, as Zayn looked at him with a bigger frown. “Privilege and all that.”

_ Mine? _

What he held in his hands was a brand spanking new  _iPhone_ –of which Harry must've been a fan, though he's personally always been a  _Blackberry_ kind of guy. The phone was slim, elegant, black and silver in a brown-ish plastic case; basically, the phone was everything it didn't need to be or have. All Zayn needed was a phone that had a text message option, so pretty much any phone would've had sufficed.

He smiled though, he shot the biggest smile he could muster to Harry, who was turning into all those pretty shades of pink and red Zayn's always had an affliction for.

His fingers moved over the screen, which had a simple black background, clicked on the message icon and typed his message. When done, he looked up though,  confused. How would he be able to text Harry if he didn't have his number? He still proceeded and clicked on _to:_ , to which a 'list' of people opened up, yet the list only had one name: Harry.

He honestly felt silly, how he was still smiling because Harry had gotten him his own phone, yet we wanted to smile even bigger, because the boy had already programmed his number into it. He clicked send and looked over to Harry, expectantly waiting and trying to calm his lips down into a straighter line.

Harry held his phone in his right hand, elbow leaning on the table, his knuckles turning whiter by the second as his leg jumped up and down. “Any second now,” he said quietly and Zayn sensed the boy was a little on edge, waiting for the text.

“It buzzed, it buzzed!” Harry practically yelled, which might not have been all that appropriate for something passed 5 in the morning, but hey, who could blame the guy, he was excited.

 

_ I guess I should say thank you. You really didn't have to get me this fancy thing though. _

_ Oh, and good morning :) _

 

Zayn wasn't sure about the smiley, but he though _fuck it_ and typed it anyway, thinking _Harry'll appreciate it._

Harry was one strange guy though. Instead of talking, like normal people did, he started typing his reply as he was smiling even more idiotically than Zayn had. Zayn wanted to text Harry, to tell him to just say what he wanted to say aloud, but then that text could've came after the one Harry was typing and that would've been a mess.

The thought of him over-thinking everything did pop into Zayn's head, but he ignored it and thought better than to just go with the flow, because why would he do that if over-thinking had always turned out to be so great for him until then?

When his phone buzzed, he looked at Harry, who was still smiling, but not as big and bright as he had before. This smile was easy, light; it was the kind of smile that had Zayn hoping he had something to do with, because this smile was better than the ecstatic one. It was rarer.

 

_ Good morning, you're welcome and I didn't actually... I called my dad and he sent it over, so yeah, thank my dad I guess. _

_ What's your favourite colour? _

_ p.s. Check the back of the phone. I did get you that. _

 

He chuckled lightly, because how could he had not? Harry had apparently chosen the same route and tried immediately if he may add, to get to know Zayn since they were communicating.

“What's so funny?” Harry asked, like he wanted to get in on the secret, but Zayn just shook his head, the corners of his lips upturned slightly as he typed.

It was pretty great. Without consciously doing it, he had managed to make it a thing to talk to Niall at night, before they went to sleep, and with Harry, every morning because they couldn't sleep. Although Harry not being able to sleep might've not been that true.

 

Harry did get up every morning at 5 in the morning for a week, just like Zayn, but soon Harry was going to sleep earlier than usual, bags under his eyes and yawning before they even had dinner.

He checked the back of the phone or rather the brown-ish plastic case and he smiled widely again, not being able to contain it again, feeling that feeling again. The brown-ish case wasn't just a brown case, it was brown, because it had a picture of a shelf filled with books on it. It was perfect.

 

_ It's perfect! Thank you, really. And my favourite colour is green, like the hulk, or green lantern or other green things. What's yours? And what exactly are those privileges you seem to have here? _

 

He might've been pushing it, he knew, but he couldn't not, because this was going way too slowly. Getting to know one another does usually start with the small things as favourite colours and foods, but that was too slow. For some reason, he wanted to know more about Harry, deeper, meaningful things the boy didn't share with everyone. Something special.

As soon as he finished that thought, he realised that maybe Harry would want to know more about Zayn, deeper, meaningful things he didn't share with anyone and that was gonna be a problem. Not that he didn't want to tell Harry anything the boy would want to know, it's that he wouldn't've been able to do so and he was well aware of that.

 

There was a reason for him not talking, one of those reasons being not wanting to share anything with anyone –even Harry, at least not yet.

 

_ Mine's usually blue, like the sky, but not like a clear sky. That shade that it gets from time to time when it's barely cloudy and a little dark.  _

_ Like, I don't want to be rude or... it doesn't mean anything, but I don't want you to know just yet. Sorry. _

 

Before he even had the chance to read the whole thing, Harry had stood up and walked over to the door. Zayn finished reading, confused, lifting his head with a raised eyebrow, not knowing what was going on.

“I think I need some rest,” Harry said, looking at the ground as he walked inside and disappeared.

 

_ Great. Managed to ruin that in less that 5 minutes. _

 

+

 

It only took him that one time to know that he was gonna have to take it slow, just like he didn't want to. After feeling slightly hypocritical for a couple of days, because he would've had reacted in the same exact way if Harry had asked for too much too soon, they got back to easier questions.

Zayn had learnt that Harry's birthday was on February 1st, that his favourite food had always been his mother's apple pie with just the right amount of cinnamon, and that although him and his dad kept in touch, they didn't really get along all that well, but because they both loved Ann, they tried to act civil around each other.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. Zayn loved getting to know Harry bit by bit, from the less important bits, to how his relationship with his dad was like, and just as Zayn got to know Harry, Harry got to know Zayn.

Zayn's birthday, how amazingly mouth-watering his mother's chicken is, how his three sisters had always been a force to be reckoned with and how he's always loved to sleep, so not being able to really pissed him off.

If you had asked him before, when they hadn't started texting yet, he would've told you that out of the both of them, Harry would be the open one, sharing everything he had to share, but to his surprise and slight dismay at first, Zayn was the open one.

He could tell though, how Harry tried his best to come off as confident and easy going, but it didn't take Zayn all that long to figure out just how far away from the truth that was.

 

After Niall had found out, they were sure everyone would start harassing Harry, if not both, for anything and everything about Zayn, but to their surprise and great happiness, the only one that had anything to say about it was Nicky –of course.

“I want my phone,” was the first thing that left her mouth when it was her time to talk at group. “If they can have theirs, I can have mine.”

Dr Stygian seemed to take in her words and posture, which wasn't far from being aggressive and demanding, Nicky's arms crossed over her chest, but she didn't react. “You know that's against the rules.”

“What?” Nicky said loudly, obviously outraged as she leaned forward the slightest bit, enough though for Paul to take a step closer to her. “How is that fair? How is them having phones _not_ against the rules?”

“Nicky,” Dr Stygian said, completely composed and calm. “We have made an exception because of their unique circumstances. You know that.”

“Oh, so not talking is good enough to get a phone? Okay then, mark me down for that please,” she said with a mocking smile. “Mark me down for having a rich daddy that owns this place too if it helps.”

_ Rich daddy that owns this place? Who the fuck owns this place? _

“Nicky!” Dr Stygian raised her voice – _finally._

Nicky had gone over the line when she opened her mouth and judging by Dr Stygian's reaction, she got so over the line, she wasn't even in the line's vicinity.

But he still didn't know and he still wanted to know who owned Lakeshore.

 

He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and vigorously started typing a message, because by Harry's posture and silence, he sensed the boy knew and it seemed like he had a problem with it.

 

_ What's going on? Who owns this place?   _ He wrote, hoping Harry had his phone with him.

 

He pressed his finger on the send icon and looked over at Harry. The boy was hunched over, staring at his intertwined fingers and holding his breath, as Zayn's breath got stuck somewhere between his lips and lungs at the sight of Harry, at how Harry was barely holding it together, at how Harry was the exact copy of what Zayn thought he looked liked when he had those moments of barely holding it together.

He stared at Harry's nervous face for as long as he was able to, but he didn't want to wait any longer, though not for answers, but for Harry to calm down. He coughed loudly enough to get Dr Stygian's attention, his eyes pleading for her to understand as they finally made eye contact. She kept her face straight, slightly stern and a little anxious when she nodded. He stood up, standing next to Harry in less than a second.

The boy's head shot up, his eyes filled with tears, on the brink of crying with his bottom lip quivering between his teeth, as Zayn grabbed his arm and pulled him up.

Without saying a word, Harry gave in. It wasn't all as mindless and thoughtless as it seems though, because Zayn only needed that one second to know what he had to do. He grabbed Harry's forearm, dragging him through the living room as he took a blanket with his other, free hand. Harry followed him, or rather allowed to be led somewhere, anywhere else besides that room, giving Zayn a feeling, some sort of hope that he'd follow him anywhere in that moment, if only Zayn asked nicely enough.

Zayn didn't turn around as they stepped outside, even when Harry finally relaxed a little, freeing himself from Zayn's possibly too tight grip, he didn't turn around, but only because Harry had freed his arm in one, and slipped his fingers between Zayn's in the next second.

They walked slower, with less intent and vigour, but they still kept a steady pace as they made it to the furthest point of the lake they were aloud to without someone coming after them.

Zayn took his hand back and laid the blanket he took on the barely damp grass, spreading it wide, so that they would've both been able to sit down. He did just so, crossing his legs under himself, so as not to give himself the chance to look at Harry, in hopes he was giving the boy a sliver of solace with what he was trying to do.

But he didn't look at Harry for another reason too. The boy hadn't moved since Zayn took his hand back, since they had separated, Harry just stood there, looking down at the ground, like he was trying to see each leaf of grass separately, as if he was mesmerised by the green strands, his eyes out of focus.

The boy's chin collided with his sternum as his arms just gave in, like they weren't even a part of his body any more. Harry stood there, next to him, his world crumbling underneath him one pebble at a time.

 

Zayn knew then, he knew that not saying anything would've helped Harry, but not as much as talking, so he fished his phone out of his jeans' pocket, the position of his legs not helping his fingers out even the slightest. He stared blankly at his reflection in the phone's screen, deciding if he actually wanted to do it, if he was sure it was the only option, when honestly, he didn't really think about it.

_ Moment of truth _ , he thought, as he placed the phone on the blanket next to his right knee. He had no idea what Harry's reaction would be, he just hoped it would help, that it would make Harry calm down, though now, he has no idea why he thought it would've calmed the boy down, he's just happy it did.

“Hey,” he said quietly, almost too quiet for Harry to hear, but he did, Harry heard him, if his head jerking up was anything to go by. Zayn didn't look away this time, even as he patted the blanket, “C'mon, sit.”

Harry of course said nothing in return, but then again, what could he have said? Okay? Or yeah, sure?

Harry continued to stare blankly at him for a beat or five before he did as Zayn instructed, sitting down opposite him, his legs protectively at his chest with his arms wrapped around them.

The sight broke Zayn, just like when Harry stormed off when they began texting; he broke a little because seeing Harry hurt was painful for Zayn, it was like he was the one who was hurting.

“It's my dad,” Harry said, and at least that part of him was okay – the part that couldn't stay quiet for very long, not at moments like this. “My dad owns this place.”

“Oh,” was all Zayn managed to return.

“Yeah. I never wanted anyone to know, but you've had the chance to see how things spread around here,” Harry said with a sigh and a shrug. “I guess I liked that you didn't know.”

 

_ Reasonable. _ Zayn thought it was reasonable that Harry didn't want yet another person to know, but at the same time, he thought it wasn 't reasonable, was it?

“Does it change anything?” Zayn asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Me knowing your dad owns this place? It doesn't really change anything, does it?” Zayn said, still talking as quietly as he could, without having to whisper.

“I don't know… Does it? Change anything?” Harry said, his eyes still wide, except now, wide with something close to hope, rather than shock.

“No,” Zayn said, finally raising his voice to a relatively normal volume. “It changes absolutely nothing. I don't care who your parents are or what they do. I only care who you are.”

He extended his hand, so that he was able to place it around Harry's bicep as gently as he could. This was so much better than texting had been, he sort of didn't even remember why he didn't talk to Harry from the get-go. _Ridiculous_.

“Just you,” Zayn finished as he moved a little closer, an inch or two, barely that, but it still felt like he was as close to Harry as he'd ever been – and he was, in each and every way.

 

“It's your turn now,” Harry said as he too leaned forward with his eyes on his hands, his tone serious though, confusing Zayn.

“My turn to do what?”

“To tell me something about yourself,” Harry explained as if he was saying the sky was blue. “Since you now know what my dad does, it's only fair you tell me something about yourself.”

“What do you wanna know?” Zayn said, just as seriously as Harry had before.

Harry shrugged as he thought. “I dunno. Anything.”

 

_ Anything? _

Even though they had been texting almost every minute of everyday since Harry got him his phone, they still only knew more or less superficial things about one another. He could've simply told Harry what his dad's profession was, but that would've been pointless. Harry would've found out eventually that his dad owned a chain of rather fancy restaurants and high-class clubs in LA, so he wanted to share something more personal, something that would count.

Since that day had already been marked down in Zayn's head as a day of progress and change, he thought going all out or at least as all out as he was comfortable with going – that's what he had told himself – was a great way to finish with.

“I almost killed him,” he said, taking his hand back, if only because he thought there might be a slight chance Harry would move away. He brought his knees up to his chest as well, feeling overexposed and vulnerable. “When _he_ died, I almost killed _his_ doctor. I put him in a comma.”

“Zayn,” Harry breathed after he had been quiet for a bit too long, not running away while screaming bloody murder as Zayn had pictured.

“I don't even remember it. It's just black, the whole memory is a pit of blackness I can't get out of,” he said. “I almost killed him Harry. I almost killed a man.”

“Why did you do it?” Harry asked tentatively, almost as if he were afraid to hear the answer, yet still wanting to know, enough so to ask at least.

“He said _he_ was going into remission, that _he_ was gonna be okay,” Zayn said aloud for the first time. “He gave me, _us_ , hope when there was none.”

“So that's why you're here? Because you almost killed a man?”

“That's a part of it, yeah,” he said with a hard sigh, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off of his chest, yet with a new weight being placed on his back at the same time. “The reason behind everything, I guess.”

“Huh,” Harry breathed, almost as if he was laughing the slightest amount. “I thought it was something worse.”

_ Funny right?   _ He was so taken over by the thought he put a man, a living person into a comma, not even being able to remember it to top it off, that he closed into himself, wasn't even able to speak, and Harry thought it was something worse.

“Why are _you_ here then? Actually killed someone?” he asked, laughing a little himself, just not in a completely happy way, more in a fuck my life kind of a way.

 

He was looking at the grass next to his hip, wrapping his index finger around a long strand of it when he felt, he literally felt Harry tense in front of him. He raised his head, only to see Harry almost shaking with pain, his eyes forcefully shut tight.

“What?” he asked, extending his hand to grab Harry's anything. “What is it?”

But Harry just continued to shake, even more so since Zayn's hand had been on his calf.

“Look at me,” Zayn pleaded, his voice soft and low, as his grip on the boy's leg firmed. “Harry, please.”

It took him a couple of seconds to raise his head and open his eyes to look at Zayn, but he did, yet it only made Zayn feel worse. Harry's eyes were red and tired, swollen almost, like he had been crying for days without any tears actually falling down his cheek.

“I'm here okay?” Zayn said, his unwavering voice a surprise. “And whatever it is,…”

 

See, he wanted to finish that sentence more than he wanted to do anything in a long, long time, but finishing it with “you'll be fine,” or “everything's gonna be okay,” would've been the most hypocritical thing he could've done, so he left it unfinished, raw, floating in the air along with all the other things he wasn't able to bring himself to say.

He knew better. He left it unfinished, because he didn't actually want to know what made Harry like this. The struggle inside him was slowly becoming unbearable, because he wanted to know, he wanted to know who could ever hurt someone so innocent and pure, someone so Harry. He wanted to know more than anything, but on the other hand, he didn't, because he had barely been able to cope with his own problems and he doubted he would've been able to handle anyone else's – especially Harry's by the look of things.

Harry seemingly relaxed, lowering his shoulders and releasing a breath he must've been holding singe he sat down. “I like your voice,” the boy said as if he was forcing himself to calm down, focusing on anything else.

“Ditto,” Zayn said, relaxing too. “Actually... Your voice, it's what calmed me down in the nurses house. I almost lost it, but then I didn't. I dunno,” he said, lowering his head to avoid Harry's eyes. “There's something about it that makes me not go all crazy.”

“Thanks?” Harry sounded unsure, but Zayn didn't expect anything else to be quite frank. “You make me not go all crazy too.”

 

And to that he raised his head. His eyes met Harry's, those green orbs the boy carried around, showing them off to everyone as if they weren't one the more beautiful shades he's ever seen. He did prefer dark brown 'till he met Harry; those dark, almost pure black circles he was sure he could get lost in, that he did get lost in what feels like once upon a time ago.

He went from wanting to drown in onyx to having the need to float over fields of vibrant grass, swaying to the melody of the winds.

“We should get back.”

 

+

 

“What happened with you and Harry? Where did you take him?” Niall asked as he barged into the room without even saying hi might he add.

“I took him outside,” Zayn said half-heartedly, as he plopped down on his bed, tired as he hadn't been in a while. “Thought it'd do him good.”

“And?” Niall asked, standing next to Zayn's bed, peering down at him with wide eyes.

“And what?” Zayn rubbed the heels of his pals at his eyes.

“And what. Did it work, and what,” Niall continued, turning around and literally marching towards his desk.

 

Zayn never understood why. Why would they have desks in their rooms when they weren't even allowed to have computers? Or books for that matter, if one wished to read in the comfort of their own room at their own desk, but that was all thanks to the infamous Tommo, who ripped and tore about twenty or thirty books he took to his room before the said rule existed, if only to piss his doctor off. At least it worked.

“I don't know.”

“But wait,” Niall spun around in his chair. “What did you even do? Just sit outside and do nothing? Or maybe you just sat outside and texted.” The way Niall charged his last words with poison made Zayn sit up in a flash.

“You _can_ just sit with someone and make them feel better, you know? Words aren't always the way to go.” Ironically, words weren't always the way to go, they just were in that particular case.

“Hold on,” Niall's eyes narrowed as he looked at Zayn. “What are you getting at?”

_ What am I getting at? _

He could've told him, but Niall felt like a saint or a saviour of sorts because Zayn had only spoken with him and he wasn't able to bring himself to take that away from the boy, not with everything he had going on.

“Nothing, Ni. But I am tired, so I'm gonna try and sleep, yeah?”

“Yeah, fine. I'll leave ya be.”

Before he even had the chance to tell Niall he could stay, he was alone in the room, nothing but darkness and him. Since the curtains were still drawn over the windows, it didn't take him too long to fall asleep. Okay, that's a lie. He feel asleep before he even laid down properly.

 

+

 

He couldn't remember how he got there. He tried, but there was no memory of him waking outside, beyond the lake, further than the edge the trees made. He couldn't remember how he got there or why he'd go there. He also didn't care.

He was standing in the middle of endless fields, full of blooming daises as if it were the beginning of May, the month bringing everything to life, more daises than he could've imagined. Tiny for-get-me-nots and brightly red poppy in the midsts of pearly-white and sun-yellow flowers. He was standing in the middle of it all, the colours filling his eyes with spring as he laid down on the blanket beneath his feet.

It was such a beautiful place to be, just, not alone. He loved being alone, always have, even as a child he'd rather spent his days in the woods, exploring every patch of mud, every tree branch that was too high for him to reach, alone. But there has always been a difference between being alone when he wanted to and when he didn't, when it was a blessing and when a curse.

This place, this field overflowing with life and sunshine, was not a place to be alone.

He turned his head to his right, his eyes still closed to shield the too bright sun away and smiled.

 

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey back,” came that voice, that raspy calming voice, his new found oasis from everything he didn't want to feel. “What are you doing here?”

Zayn moved his head back and opened his eyes as he took a deep breath, taking everything around him in. He closed his eyes then, exhaling, “I was looking for you.”

“Well,” Harry said, now laying on his back next to Zayn, his head pointed at the sky too. Zayn could swear he hear him smiling through his words, “You found me.”

Humming, he moved his legs a little, sinking into the soft grass beneath him.

 

“Why me?”

Zayn turned his head to his right and brought his hand to his chest, his eyes still closed. “Why you?”

“Where is _he_?” Harry asked carefully, almost as if he were afraid of the answer, so Zayn moved his right hand towards the boy, lightly grazing the back of his hand on Harry's forearm, wondering what gave him the idea to do so. “Why isn't _he_ here with you?”

This was one of those moments Zayn didn't want to be by himself, but not just alone, he wanted someone specific he had in mind to be with him; but he didn't want _him. He_ had been the source of Zayn's calm, joy, love, lust; the source of everything good in his life. _He_ had been everything good, but _he_ has become everything awful, bad, painful, torturous; _he_ became the unthinkable, the one thing Zayn wanted to run away from, so no, he didn't want _him_ there, in that dream he searches for every night since.

 

“Because I wanted to find _you,_ not _him,_ ” he said honestly, afraid of his own answer.

He opened his eyes, seeing Harry next to him for the first time, laying on his side with his head propped up on his elbow, his expression as pure as it ever were.

“I'm glad you found me then.”

 

Zayn smiled, feeling good, old-fashion good, better than he'd felt in a long, long time, as Harry leaned down.

It was slow, unsure and cautious, Harry leaning down as minimally as he could've, only showing his intent. Zayn's smile faded shortly after, barely moving his head closer, enough though to show his own intent. Harry knew then, knew it was okay to close the distance between them, doing so in an almost painfully slow manner, even if it felt as fast as lighting to Zayn.

Zayn's eyes wondered from Harry's half closed ones, to his slightly parted lips, the boy's tongue moving over and around to wet them in anticipation. Letting go, he closed his eyes and readied himself, not being able to hold on any longer, needing to taste Harry, to find out if he tasted like what Zayn had imagined.

As he finally felt that glitch of air on his own lips, escaping from Harry's slightly parted mouth, he raised his head, wanting to meet Harry half way.

His body jerked up, his arms flying around him as he woke up, panting, in shock and angry as all hell. _Fucking shit,_ he thought as he slammed his fists on the mattress, pissed the fuck off. He took a look around the room them, trying to figure out how long he'd been asleep for, when he saw the barely-there light coming through the curtains, so he thought he couldn't've been asleep for more than an hour or so. _Even better... I didn't even sleep that long._

 

+

 

As usual, he got up, went to the bathroom and then downstairs. The clock above the reception desk said it was 8 and he has never been happier to know it was 8 o'clock in the morning -still too fucking early, but also fucking good enough.

Many, if not everyone was awake by the time he had made his way to the dining room, heading towards the fruit basket before he even checked who was there. With an apple in one and a piece of toast in the other hand, he turned around and started walking towards their table.

He was probably too deep in his head, the memory of his dream strong enough to be replayed over and over, to notice something was missing, because everything  had been like most mornings.

He sat down next to Niall, who greeted him with a wide smile. “Well good morning sleeping beauty.”

“You're up late,” Louis added.

He was, thank god.

He nodded once to Niall and Louis, mulling over if he should spare a nod for Liam too, but thinking better of it at the last second.

_ Wait,  _ he thought.

His head almost dislodged with the force he spun it towards Niall, his elbow already at the blond's side. He had to poke him more than once, because Niall was entranced with his cocoa-puffs, but the boy got annoyed soon enough.

“What?” Niall growled, his tone underlined with a warning to better leave him alone with his breakfast.

Just like always, all Zayn was able to do was stare at him with his eyes widely open in hopes the boy would get it and yet again, Niall didn't disappoint.

“Harry's in bed. He got up really early I think, probably couldn't sleep." Niall said with a shrug as his spoon was already on its way to his mouth.

Zayn took a bite of his apple, chewed it once, twice, before he took a bite of the bread, not even chewing it as he stood up.

“Zayn,” he heard a warning voice come from behind him. “You should eat your breakfast.”

He so badly wanted to explain to Dr Stygian it was an emergency, that food was not his priority right now, but he of course wasn't able to. His lips parted, he took a quick breath, just like he would've before, when he was normal, but no words came out, not a single one.

“He knows,” Niall said around a mouthful of chocolaty cereal.

He shot the blond boy a glance, which he wanted to say thank you, before he looked at Dr Stygian, waiting for an okay.

“Go,” she said and it was all it took for him to start moving, making her yell after him, “but come back so you can finish your breakfast.”

 

Each door was different. The door to his and Niall's room was light blue, Louis' was purple (something about it being a royal colour, so Zayn presumed Tommo picked it out, but since it was a light, lavender shade, Lou must've had a say in it too). Amanda's, Matty's and Nicky's, and Peter's were all different shades of colours with a predominant hue of brown mixed in, while Harry's and Liam's was bright red.

Zayn knew they had all chosen their own colours –except for Zayn, of course– when they got their rooms. Niall chose blue cause he claimed it was a neutral sort of colour, and okay, it was. Harry told him in one of their texts, that Liam chose their door to be red, because that was his mum's favourite colour and Zayn thought that was sweet, that even with everything Liam was going through, the boy managed to keep a life-line, a security blanket in the form of a door colour.

He knocked lightly on the red panel making sure that if Harry really was asleep, he wouldn't've woken the boy up.

“Who is it?” he heard Harry silently grumble inside, so quietly, that Zayn wouldn't have heard it if he wasn't listening for it. But he stayed quiet, not being able to make words come out of his mouth yet. “You don't have to knock, Zayn,” he then heard and his heart jumped.

He opened the door and squeezed into the room as swiftly as he could, closing it behind him.

 

“How did you know it was me?”

“Everyone else would've said something.”

“Oh,” and along with that oh, went the illusion that Harry just knew it was Zayn.

“I'm tired Zayn,” Harry said as he turned on the bed, so that his back was facing Zayn.

He walked over to Liam's bed, but decided to rather not sit there, because god knows what would've happened if Liam walked in and saw him sitting on his bed. He personally didn't want to find out, so he took another step and gently sat down at the foot of Harry's bed.

“When did you wake up?” Zayn asked softly, looking at his hands on his lap.

Harry stirred on the bed, covering his face with his blanket, “At 5 o'clock.”

“Harry,” he cooed, placing his hand on the boy's leg. “I'm sorry.”

“No, it's okay, I just thought-,” Harry started to say. Zayn didn't immediately jump in, because he knew Harry wasn't finished, so he sat there patiently, playing with his fingers as he waited for Harry to continue. “I just thought it was our thing. Guess it isn't.”

“No, no,” Zayn hurried to explain. “It is our thing. I just didn't wake up at 5 this morning, I woke up at 8.”

Harry turned around, so that he was laying on his back, propped up on his elbow. “You woke up at 8?”

“Yeah.”

“Zayn,” Harry said, as he lunged forward, extending his arms on both sides of Zayn, connecting them together behind Zayn's back.

Harry hugged him, hugged. It wasn't as good as that dream that still lingered, permanantly attached to his brain; it was better. He remembered what he saw in the dream, what they said, but he couldn't remember the touches, the feelings he'd felt. And with Harry all around him, with Zayn's chin hooked on the boy's shoulder, he felt their skin touching, his stomach twisting, his brain overloading with Harry.

“That's so great,” Harry said into Zayn's neck, before he moved to sit with his back against the headboard. “So?”

“So?” Zayn asked, moving to sit on across from Harry with his legs crossed underneath him. 

“How come you slept? I mean, it's great and all, but what happened? Did they give you a pill or something?”

 

The last couple of days were intense to say the least. The texting, the talking –as in, actual talking, the dream, the hug, and he still felt okay. It was more than he could've asked for really, and he was happy with being okay, as he wasn't expecting miracles to happen; so okay was okay.

But being okay didn't mean he felt he could tell Harry that he was the reason behind the best sleep he's had –or one of the best– since a long time ago. Being okay just meant he was okay, not that he was comfortable with spilling his guts open in front of Harry, telling him the extent of the effect he had on him.

“Dunno,” Zayn said as he tried to shrug away the lie. “I'm sorry you woke up though.”

“Nah, it's okay. Went back to sleep when you didn't show.”

“Why didn't you come get me?” Zayn asked then, because really, why didn't he come get him?

Harry's cheeks turned into that beautiful shade of red as he looked down, “I did actually.”

“Then why didn't you wake me?”

“ 'Cause you were sleeping and I didn't want to wake ya,” Harry said, looking up.

“You could've," Zayn looked down. “You should, next time.”

 

“So, there'll be a next time?”

“Yeah, tomorrow at 5?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know I can't promise you that,” and it's a good thing he didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go!
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting and all of those lovely kudos you've left/gave!  
> Hope you like it and enjoy!
> 
> p.s. I'm sorry it's moving so slow, but I wouldn't want to rush things -I don't think any of them would be able to handle it anyway....
> 
> (I am also going a much needed holiday break, so the next chapter should be up here in about two weeks)

 

Zayn didn't tell Harry, not for a while at least, and mostly because he sort of didn't want Harry to know. Now, he probably doesn't have to tell you just what exactly he was keeping to himself, but just for the sake of it, he will. 

 

Zayn woke up that next morning at five, just like he'd promised Harry. He'd like to think _because_ he promised Harry, but it was more the fact that sleep again became a thing Zayn could only wish for.

They talked outside, both with a cup of coffee, Zayn smoking his two cigarettes, and then they fell asleep in the two armchairs, both with their legs swung over the armrest, Zayn with a book on his chest and Harry with music playing in his ears, and that was normal, that was what they always did.

 

They both awoke again around 8 o'clock, went to eat breakfast and then continued the day as planned. It was like that for two months. Two months of waking up at 5 o'clock, drinking coffee, going back to sleep and continuing the day as if nothing was happening.

'As if nothing was happening,' might just be a wrong way to put it, but it also isn't because there was something, just, not really and it does make it sound as if something was actually happening, when nothing did, not in the strictest sense of the word at least, and maybe not for both of them.

 

In those two months, Zayn had convinced himself that he really was properly mental. Why? Well, wouldn't you like to know.

It started with the dream, of course, with the dream he had of Harry, because after that painfully serene dream, he was sure something would change, that something did change. Him and Harry got closer, one might've even said more intimate, but without actually getting intimate. It was strange, unusual, because for once in his life, Zayn didn't dream it up. He didn't plan for anything to happen, he swears. It just... Did? Exactly _what_ was happening is a little harder to put into words.

Harry got a lot closer to Zayn a lot of the time and not just closer as friends, getting to know each other better, knowing all of those superficial things that didn't really matter with some of the big ones, the ones that did matter, the ones that still do, but he was getting physically closer. Harry started sitting closer to him when he could, his touches would always linger that extra second, making Zayn's hair at the back of his neck stand up.

Zayn had an inkling that what he was dreaming up, wasn't actually another one of his 'creations' as _he_ started calling them; a feeling he didn't actually dream anything up, or so he had hoped. It was also weird, not because of anything else, but because it felt wrong, forbidden almost.

 

Harry might've taken the place of everything good in Zayn's life, yet that didn't mean he wanted or needed anyone to replace _him,_ because _Zayn_ didn't want anything to be good in his life _._ He never thought it to be even possible, not to mention living in a probable actuality of it.

 

_ He _ had told him, when  _he_ was laying in bed, with nothing left but an IV in his vein,  _he_ told him that he shouldn't waste time getting over  _him_ , that they had something unbelievably unique and amazing, but that it shouldn't be  _it_ for Zayn.

 

“There's someone out there for you,” _he_ said, _his_ face paler than the walls of _his_ private room Zayn had practically moved into. “Someone better than I've ever been.”

“Don't say that,” Zayn tried to argue, but it felt futile arguing with _him,_ especially when _he_ was so weak and helpless. Zayn reached for _his_ hand, holding it gently, careful not to brake _him_. “I love you. I will always love _you._ ”

 

“I never said you didn't or that you won't,” _he_ squeezed Zayn's hand, trying to push _his_ words under his skin. “Don't get stuck, okay? Never get stuck on me. You love me and I love you, I always will, but that doesn't mean you have to live your life with me at the back of your head and in your every thought.”

 

“You know I can't promise you that,” and it's a good thing he didn't. 

 

Ever since that faithful day,  _he_ has been in the back of his head, in his every thought, and as words became a thing of the past, so did  _he_ .  _He_ ruled over his every dream and waking moment, everyday, until Harry.

 

Harry broke Zayn's vicious cycle of misery and empty nights spent laying awake in bed, not being able to close his eyes, searching the ceiling above his bed for unreadable, hidden answers to questions he still hasn't been able to ask, because he didn't want to face  _him_ in yet another dream, the pain being too much, and so Zayn hoped his inkling was righteous, because if it wasn't, he didn't know who would've haunted his dreams more, Harry or  _him._

Zayn never really understood why someone so full of life would ever want to be with someone like him, a constant anchor. He never understood, yet there he was, hoping it could, would happen again.

 

+

 

“Hey you,” Harry fucking skipped onto the porch at 5 in the morning.

Zayn blew smoke in his direction, too early to greet the boy with actual words.

“Hey,” Harry said, dragging his e as he waved his hand in front of his face, scrunching his nose up in annoyance. “You know I don't like it when you do that.”

“Sorry, just having a tough morning.”

Harry fell into the chair next to Zayn's, his head and body turned so that he was facing him, “How can your morning be tough when you're not even fully awake yet?”

“I'm here, aren't I?”

Harry's cheeks flushed in a bright red as he looked down, chewing on his bottom lip, “That means you're having a tough morning because you're here or that you're awake?”

Zayn smiled. “I'm awake. And forget about my tough morning, yeah?”

“What's making it tough?” Harry immediately asked, apparently not letting go of the subject.

“I don't actually know,” Zayn brushed his fingers through his un-styled and maybe a tad bit too long hair as he huffed out a harsh breath looking at nothing in particular. “I'm just in a funk, I guess.”

His 'funk' was Harry oriented as you've probably been able to figure out for yourself; he was growing tired of this confusing tango they found themselves in.

 

He was tired of Harry giving him his trademark smirk at the dining room table, at group, in the living room, in the halls; everywhere really. He was tired of Niall looking at him as if he was searching for a reason behind Harry's smirk, because Niall might've been certifiably insane, but he was far from blind. Even Liam gave him a stink eye here and there – he was counting that as a win though, because it was the first time Liam looked at him directly.

 

Him and Harry had gone from knowing each other's favourite foods, to knowing what their rooms had been like when they were kids; which posters hung where, how Zayn had to use the computer in his sister's room, how Harry had his vinyl's organized. Zayn knew where Harry had his first kiss, could probably find that tree if he wanted to, just as Harry could pick out that brick Zayn was standing on when his lips touched someone else's for the first time.

 

Zayn could tell what Harry was thinking at any given moment, could tell if his smile was genuine just by its curve, could tell when Harry was having a tough day just by the boy's walk – except when he was next to him. When they were together, just them, when he wanted to know what was going through the boy's head, he couldn't, for the life of him, put his finger on a certain thought. And that was strange as well, how on one hand, it was driving him up the wall, because he almost couldn't handle not knowing, while on the other, he liked it, got up in the morning for it, because it was different, a change, something he thought he had lost.

 

His introvert-ness had one if not more pleasing aspects. When he was still growing into his body, not yet knowing what to do with it, when he didn't have friends to find out if everything he was feeling was normal, he'd spend his days and nights sitting on benches, never on the same one twice, observing passers-by as if he would be able to find out, as if they would stop and tell him, answer his questions. But in their own way, they did.

 

Every one of them, every person that walked by told Zayn their story and no matter how short or long, he'd sit there and listen to what they had to say. His mother had told him that he has a way of listening with his eyes and that's exactly how every woman clutching her purse close to her body told him she was afraid, afraid of people, herself, afraid of what the city had to offer; how every man wearing an over-sized or a too-close-fitting suit was so anxious to make it big in his life, he'd do anything for it, even meet the guy with the dark  _ RayBans _ at the end of the street, squeeze a bill in his hand and walk away with a small plastic bag filled with whatever he could afford.

 

He remembers as clear as day when  _ he _ talked to him, when  _ he _ told him everything while not uttering a single word.

When he woke up in  _ his _ bed for the first time, he was alone, not a sound, not a single shadow in the bedroom. He didn't quite believe he was actually in  _ his _ bed, laying naked under  _ his  _ covers as he heard something. He thought it was a door closing or a remote-control being put down on the glass coffee table  _ he _ had. His heartbeat sped up, his breathing quickened with each intake, with every step he took closer to the bedroom door. He had no idea what the protocol was, if he should've left last night, if he should've just gotten dressed and ran out as if nothing had happened. He opened the door with his eyes closed, with a breath stuck in his lungs, hoping he could stay, hoping  _ he _ wasn't gonna make him leave. Zayn thought about asking if he could stay, about promising to not touch anything or make any noise, if he could just sit on the couch for a while because he really didn't want to go home, but when he finally let go of that breath, his brain in desperate need of oxygen, it hit him, it all hit him at once.

 

The sizzling coming from the frying pan,  _ him _ standing over it, making eggs sunny-side-up, the two plates on the table placed next to each other, not opposite, but next to each other. Glasses filled with orange juice to the brim, the open window letting in the chirps of birds and rays of sunshine which filled the room up to the ceiling, making it easier for Zayn to breathe.

 

“You're up,”  _ he _ said with the smile that haunts Zayn's dreams with such light, it brings nothing but darkness to all those memories Zayn holds on to, those he'll never let go of.

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbled under his breath, not knowing what to do.

“Good,”  _ he  _ said. “Great. Time for breakfast anyway.”

 

It was  _ their _ first of many breakfasts  _ he _ made, breakfasts Zayn still doesn't know whether he's happy he had the chance to sit through, enjoy, have memories of. It was perfect. It was nice, even if Zayn's never been much of a talker, especially in the morning, even if  _ he _ also didn't say much, it was nice to know someone was willing, wanted to spend breakfast with you with no need to fill every moment of it with pointless chatter.

 

Harry smiled, substituting the missing sun in the morning sky, shining so bright it brought Zayn back to where he wanted to be, “Can I help?”

Zayn smiled too, thankful more than happy.

 

“You are,” he said as he took another drag of his cigarette, letting his head fall back onto the wall. “Enough about me though. How are you on this not-at-all-tough morning?”

 

It took Zayn some time – too long basically – to register that his question went unanswered. He raised his head and looked over at Harry, who was blushing, again, this time even brighter than before. The curly haired boy was trying too hard to stretch out the hem of his shirt with his nervous fingers for Zayn to leave him or it, whatever it was, be.

 

“What is it?” he asked as he stubbed out his cigarette.

“Hm?” Harry tried to pretend he didn't hear.

“Why are you twitchy all of a sudden?”

“I'm not twitchy.”

“Harry, you're ruining your jumper by pulling on-,” he tried to say, but was interrupted by Harry's sudden outburst of words.

 

“Okay, so I don't know. I think I have, like, a crush on you, maybe? But it's nothing, like, you don't have to... I mean of course it's nothing. Just, forget it.”

“You what?” Zayn stared blankly at him, at how Harry ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his curls away from his eyes as his head dipped down, his cheeks overheating, eyes closed. “You have a crush on me?”

Harry looked at him, his brows pulled together, his lips in a stern line, “Maybe?”

 

And there was his chance, handed to him on a golden platter, the best chance he would've ever gotten. “Maybe I have a crush on you too?” he said, taking the chance, the whole god damn plate, but still being careful enough not to drop it. “But I don't think it's a crush. I just... I like you, you know?”

“Do you like me, like me?” Harry asked with a smile playing on his lips, his mood a sudden turn.

“Maybe?” Zayn teased back with a smile of his own.

 

The sudden turn from Harry giving him his own phone, them texting, talking, Harry insisting on spending every second together, to _this_ , is hard to think about. How natural it was, how he didn't spend every waking and sleeping hour going through everything that happened shouldn't've been so easy to do, so mindless he didn't even realize he wasn't doing it. There should've been a struggle, a resistment in his head, something like what had happened when he met _him;_ how he wasn't able to sleep, how everything reminded Zayn of _him_ even if he barely knew _him_. There should've been _something_ , but since his life had gone on a completely new path in the last 7 months, he tried to crumple the idea as best as he could before it turned into an invisible fly insistingly buzzing around his ears.

 

“So what does this mean?” Zayn asked after they'd been quiet for more than what was comfortable.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “We're already at that question?”

“C'mon, you know what I mean,” Zayn reasoned. “It's just that since we're in here, I don't think we could actually go on a date.”

“Why not?” Harry was apparently confused, but then again, so was Zayn.

“Okay, how do you propose we do this, then?”

 

+

 

The question of doubt Zayn had was all Harry needed to take action. If he thinks about it now, it does surprise Zayn just how little time Harry needed to organize the whole thing. Oh yeah, it was a whole thing.

 

At first, Zayn doubted Harry went on many dates before the one they had, but it did become obvious fairly soon that Harry was just making the most of what he had to work with.

 

He got up around something after four to a text with Harry hoping he had slept okay, which he didn't, but Harry being Harry, covered that too.

 

_Good morning! Hope you slept okay. (and even if you didn't, we at least have really comfy beds)_

 

Harry really had thought of everything. He said to give him 'til Friday to sort everything out, but Zayn didn't pay it much attention, 'cause he really doubted Harry could pull _anything_ off, not to mention what he actually did pull off.

 

After reading the text, he first went to the bathroom and then downstairs, his fingers already itching for that first cigarette to wake him up. He stood in the kitchen with a raised eyebrow before he proceeded to make himself a cuppa Joe, because _someone_ had already prepared everything. Coffee was in the filter, his mug next to the machine, so all he had to do was just press the _on_ button and wait for the minute it took the coffee to fill his mug pass by. It was barely 5 o'clock, so he didn't bother to Sherlock Holmes the case of the prepared coffee machine, plus, he hadn't had that cigarette yet, so his priorities were slightly diverted to the warm scent of fresh coffee.

 

With his mug in hand he padded to the first chair he saw on the porch, the hard wood cold under his bare feet. As hot smoke rolled down to his lungs, he thought about going back upstairs to wake Harry, but shortly decided he'd rather risk a pout from the boy than he would to make him suffer through yet another too early of a morning.

 

Letting the subject go, he left his mind to wonder, going back to that field, to that dream, to the dreams he once had and the ones he never will. _They_ were planning a much needed holiday before everything got as bad as _they_ never thought possible. _They_ wanted to go all over the world, to travel and see the countries _they_ talked about before _they_ fell asleep, but _their_ circumstances didn't allow _them_ to go far though, not as far as _their_ dreams, because Zayn had insisted _they_ should stay close to _his_ doctor just in case, because you never know what might happen. Without complaining, because _he_ knew it did no good _, he_ agreed on Santa Barbara, but, as if _he_ 'd met Zayn the day before, _he_ insisted on _them_ staying in the small Inn, the one close to the beach. _They_ booked, however, a room in the Four-Season Santa Barbara Hotel, on Zayn's dad's expenses, which he offered freely and with no threats from his only son.

_They_ had everything planned, or rather Zayn had everything planned to the last detail; from the hour  _they'd_ have to leave LA, to the moment  _they_ 'd go to the pool and when  _they_ would shower.  _ Plan ahead, think ahead and there'll be less things to surprise you,  _ sort of crap.

Zayn didn't plan it though, he didn't think ahead, didn't expect it and so of course it happened, because life has never been good, never just right, something had to go wrong and so it did. Zayn called for  _ him _ , told  _ him  _ _ he _ had five more minutes to finish getting ready and then  _ they _ 're off.  _ He  _ yelled back an okay babe, and Zayn continued packing up the last few things. He carried everything to the car and decided to give  _ him _ a few more minutes, so he lit up a last-cigarette-before-a-long-drive cigarette. He had to be careful not to light the weed ones he had rolled in the pack, 'cause driving while being high stopped being fun after he wrecked his dad's car couple of years back.  _ He _ asked if Zayn could get  _ him _ some good weed, because radiation therapy was taking its toll on  _ him _ , making  _ him _ nauseous, unable to sleep or eat, and since  _ his _ vision had started to slowly worsen,  _ he _ couldn't roll them  _ himself _ . Zayn crushed the stub with his shoe as he almost reached the filter when he looked up at  _ their  _ building _ . _ _ Their _ balcony's door was still open and so were the living room windows, so Zayn locked the car and set to go upstairs again to close everything up and to tell  _ him  _ _ his _ hair looks fine as it is.

He should've known, even then he should've know something was off, because he doesn't remember how it happened, he doesn't remember the steps he took to the bathroom or the way he opened the door, because  _ he  _ didn't answer back when Zayn yelled to hurry up or  _ they _ 'll be late, doesn't remember anything. Anything, but the way  _ he _ looked, perfectly and without a fault. The image of  _ him _ laying on  _ his _ back in their bathroom, eyes wide opened, lips parted as his body shook like someone had sent thousands of volts through  _ him _ , like  _ he _ was in a bath full of water and someone had dropped a charged wire in it.  _ He _ looked as Zayn still imagines the most horrible pain must look like; like his worst nightmare. He must've knelt down and turned  _ him _ on  _ his _ side, because that's how the paramedics said they found  _ him,  _ the paramedics he supposedly called, frantic and hysteric if he knows himself well enough.

 

The memory was enough to bring him back as if someone had dropped a charged wire into the ocean he's been drowning in for far too long. It was enough for him to start regretting the idea of going on a date with Harry, because what if it was too soon? _What if something goes wrong? What if I'm not ready? What if_ it _happens? What if, what if,… ?_ All of those what if's floating around in his head made him think, but thankfully only for a second, that the date was a bad idea, that he should explain to Harry that it isn't going to work, that he was sorry, that insert excuse _here_. It only lasted that one second, because so what? So what if he wasn't ready or if something would go wrong? He would've dealt with it when the time came if it indeed did come, and surprise, surprise, it didn't.

 

When he woke up for the second time, felling good because after being at Lakeshore for 7 months, he finally had a reason to even wake up, finally had his mind set on something, Zayn went to eat his bread and apple.

The dining room was as it had always been, loud and crowded. He plopped down in his usual spot, deciding on spending some time with the rest of his friends for a change.

 

“Morning,” Niall said around a mouthful.

Liam's head moved up a little, a settle twitch mimicking a nod, which Zayn freely interpreted as a silent hello, whether that was the case or not. He thought that because he and Harry were getting along, Liam warmed up to him as well, but maybe it was all just wishful thinking on Zayn's part. Still, he looked at the boy and gave a small nod in return.

“Where's your friend at?” Niall asked and Zayn didn't know if it was more of a general question, or a snarky remark, similar to “Where's your hip buddy?” the blond boy made a week ago.

He shrugged as he took a bite of the almost plastic-green apple and he actually wondered where Harry was. It was weird that he didn't come to the porch in the morning, but it was almost unthinkable that Harry would miss his granola cereal breakfast.

 

Just as he started to worry if Harry may have left or at least abandon the idea of their date, phone ready in hand, the boy strutted into the dinning room and turned straight to the cereal. With a spoon already in his mouth, he mumbled what everyone at the table understood as a hi. Zayn put the phone back in his pocket, just as he felt it vibrate. He threw Harry a curious look, but he only got a mischievous smirk in return as he clicked on the new message icon.

 

_You're picking me up at 6, taking me to dinner and the movies. Don't be late!_

 

_What?_ Zayn thought as he looked up to see Harry still unabashedly grinning like a mad man – a little pun intended. Zayn had to remind himself, he had to keep telling himself to just go with it, to not worry, not plan anything, but it looked like he didn't or wouldn't have to, because Harry had already done that.

 

_Okay._

 

He wanted to ask a million questions, most of them outrageous and the reason he was in there to begin with, but the idea of them not being able to go anywhere calmed him down slightly. The idea of Paul never being a step too far seemed to give him a calming relief as well, because maybe no one will get hurt again, not by Zayn at least.

 

After breakfast, they all migrated to their usual spots. Zayn and Harry ended up in the two armchairs, Niall and Tommo in the group room playing _something_ , Liam and Matty in front of the tv, which ended up as almost a contest of who could be the least socially awkward in a complete non-social activity, and Peter and Nicky arguing which was more important, the war in Vietnam or Nicky's shoe collection.

He was surprised he even heard Harry over Tommo's much too loud screams of victory, when the boy said he was gonna go.

As his mouth wanted to say, Why?, his brain blocked the instruction, so that not even a puff of air came out. Starting to freak out just a little, he took a deep breath and did his best to ask the question silently, with a lift of his right eyebrow.

Harry's head motioned to the clock behind them. “It's ten.”

_Oh. Dr Stygian._

 

After Harry had been gone for almost ten minutes, she basically ran and very nearly fell into the one-seater, breathing as if he had run at least a mile. “I'm so sorry I'm late,” she rushed out as she searched her notes to find his file. “Okay, right, where were we?”

Seeing Dr Stygian frazzled and unprepared was as it happened a two time thing Zayn had experienced and he can honestly say it had made him characteristically nervous himself, because seeing the one person that's supposed to have it all together in their lives be all crazy and shit was worrying.

 

He waited patiently for her to _finally_ get to his file, through which she practically flew over. “Oh, right,” she said, putting the closed file back on her knees and her palms on the red plastic cover. “What are you wearing tonight?”

In the moment, he thought he must've heard wrong, so he leaned towards her the smallest bit, pointing his ear at her.

“On your date tonight. What are you wearing on your date?” she explained plainly, gesturing to her chest as she continued. “Because I remembered you have that one white shirt with those black spots? Or is it a pattern?”

By that point, he was sure the doctors had missed the fact he also had schizophrenia, because it wasn't real, right? His fucking shrink was excited about his date and to make it even weirder, she seemed to be even more excited than he was.

“I mean, you can't wear one of your t-shirts and it's too hot for a sweater, so you could wear that shirt,” she said matter of factly, but he wasn't responding – even if he could, he wouldn't've.

He continued to stare blankly and in disbelief at her, but she just kept going.

“You know, Harry showed me what he's wearing and if you do go for that shirt, and I think you should, you'd be coordinated and it'd be an even better date,” she said as if they were friends, as if she was giving him friendly advice, as if he wasn't a committed patient in a mental institute. “And since Harry planned everything-. What?”

He might not have been able to cut her off with his words, but his face must've done it instead, his eyes opened wide, his right eyebrow in the middle of his forehead and his mouth agape. _How does she even know about the date in the first place?_

“Oh, I thought Harry's told you. Guess not,” she started to say, blushing a little with the realization and immediately trying to mask it with a shrug. “He came to me to ask permission, but I don't think I can tell you for what, because you know, surprise and all that. All I know is that Harry is really excited and so I am Zayn. This is great and I'm really happy for you. Really, really happy.”

 

Neither of them spoke much from that moment on; Zayn presumed she was picking his outfit in her head, since she knew exactly what was in his closet – thank you weekly room examinations – while he was simply freaking out internally.

“You know, I'm not happy because you're going on a date or because you're apparently _really_ getting along with Harry,” she said softly, peering out the window instead of staring him down with her too-familiar brown eyes. “I'm happy because you're getting better, no matter what the reason behind it is, no matter what you do, you're getting better and it makes me elated to see you get better, however slowly.”

She offered him a polite smile as she gathered her notes, stood up and turned to leave. “And he's getting better too, you know. Has he told you anything about why he's here?”

He slowly shook his head.

“Well, he's getting better too,” she said and walked away, leaving a messy blur behind her.

 

It might have been making her feel elation and happiness and whatever emotion Zayn forgot existed, but that was just it, wasn't it? He forgot happiness existed because he tried so hard to erase it, to delete it from his memory, if only so that he couldn't have it, couldn't have felt it, considering he shouldn't be allowed to, shouldn't be able to know what happiness is, not without _him._

 

Sitting on his bed, the curtains drawn closed, he had his real moment of panic. _What if, what if, what if, … ?_ What if he just stays in his room, locked up and hidden away? What if he would hide away from his problems just for today, just until midnight? Or what if he pretends to have a black out, so that they'll give him a shot and he won't be able to go? What if he goes pretend crazy, or pretends to go crazi _er_?

What if Harry's crazy and this is his thing, the reason why he's in here? Taking innocent, fragile people on dates to only throw them away additionally scared and warn out? _Or what if I'm crazy for thinking of all this?_

 

It took him a while, 7 months to be more exact, 'till July, to feel bad for himself, self-pity and sorrow for what he was, is, what he ended up being. All these issues he had with himself, no one else, himself – period – were just that. Issues he had, that he had to deal with, one small step at a time or by jumping off of cliffs like he was about to in a couple of hours. But which was better? Moving slower than snails or jumping without knowing if there was anyone below waiting, willing to catch you? Only-.

 

Zayn's intelligent, he is. His mother had told him more often than not, teachers praised him – all but professor Vex, who taught math; numbers were never his thing. He finished college with honours, so yeah, he was kind of smart, but it took him a while. Everything that had to do with people took him a while, to do with strangers, people he didn't know yet. That's why it took him some time to realize he was being a complete and utter retard.

Since he had come to Lakeshore, there had been herds of people standing, waiting patiently for him to jump, to take that last step and yet it took him so long, he hoped most, some were still there, would still catch him. One was there for sure, one person had been there for an extended period of time, could have still been standing there and _he will be there at 6 today._

 

He finished reading Marley & Me – he had never seen the movie and he was still a big softy inside, so yes, he might've had something in his eye – at something past 5 o'clock in the afternoon, less than an hour before the whole thing. He took a longer than needed shower, but the cold water felt so good washing over him, his overbearing thoughts floating to the drain along with every drop. When he dried himself off, he thought of just about everything he could do to pass the time, to make it less painful, because he really _very_ much didn't want to open up his closet full of his _ordinary_ t-shirts.

Back in the day – which might sound like ages ago, yet that's exactly how it felt – he had a style, clothes he had picked out with a purpose, outfits put together, options, whereas now, he had sweatpants, jeans, t-shirts and sweaters – you don't really need that many options in mental institutions. He did, however, have that one fancy enough shirt, which was his best option to look at least a little put-together, but he couldn't wear that one, he wouldn't have been able to bring himself to reach for it in the closet, wouldn't've born the thought of having it hang on his shoulders, not with the image of how it used to hang on _his_ shoulders; _his_ shirt.

 

He picked the one t-shirt that looked as if it had been ironed, the grey one with the big _OBEY_ logo on it, which was cool, it was okay. He matched it with simple washed out jeans and that was it. No shoes needed to be picked out, 'cause he only had that one pair, so brown boots it was. His hair was still a mess, but he couldn't've cared less if his locks were perfect or not. All ready and done, he looked at the clock hanging next to the balcony's door, which dreadfully read 5:55, give or take a minute, which meant he had all of 5 minutes to internally freak out yet again, give or take, but rather give a couple of minutes.

 

Walking up and down, pacing all over the room, he was asking himself if he was ready for this, if he was better and enough so to go on a date with Harry, with anyone really. Well, it wasn't really a date, was it? It was more of a pretend one, right? It's not like they could've had an actual date, not in Lakeshore. _Crap._ _What if Harry made a deal with Dr Stygian and she is actually letting them go out? Like out, out. Outside out._ She should've been committed herself if she would've actually done that, because more so than anything else, Zayn would not have came back, not even with a gun to his head. Even if he tries he can't say why he'd agreed to the date in the first place, because as he paced up and down, left and right, all over the room, he tried to remember, almost splitting his head in half and he couldn't. He doesn't regret it though, not in the slightest. Well, maybe a little.

 

Funnily enough, he does remember thinking, asking himself why Harry. Why hadn't he liked Niall like that, or maybe Derek, the more than hot, genuinely nice and very polite nurse that came a couple of times a month. Liam and Louis never really popped into his head, 'cause Tommo would've never went for him, and dating Liam would've been terribly horrible. Can you even imagine?

 

With the clock ticking away the last few seconds, his mind flew over and past every thought that had popped into his head that day; now, one might think a normal person goes through only a certain amount of thoughts per day and one would be right, but Zayn was far from being a normal person. His mind raced and jumped, crawled and soared, but it seemed to land on one particular thought, on one single thing that had his mind twisted for more than a day.

 

_Why is Harry even here?_ The thought hadn't escaped him, not since Harry had a mini breakdown in group however long ago – counting days in this joint became pointless after the first two or three weeks – and especially now, with Dr Stygian unnecessarily bringing it up. At first he thought Harry had something along the lines of what Niall had, only because they were both always so cheery and in their own worlds, but no, no schizophrenia. Then, including Harry's too many scars he had the displeasure of seeing, he obviously connected self-harm as the reason behind him being there, but why would they let him out so often if he had such an issue to deal with? Harry's dad might had something to do with that, but it still made no sense.

 

Just as he concluded that assumptions based on guesses are something he's always avoided, he glanced at the time. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at his jeans, straightened his shirt and left his room to go pick up Harry at his.

 

If he were somewhere else, it might've taken more for him to admit to staring at that red door as if it were going to eat him whole, standing in front of it, right arm half raised. He brought his knuckles and almost too softly touched the wood with them, but however gently he had knocked, Harry opened the door at the first contact of flesh on door.

“Hi,” Harry said in a much too excited tone, but honestly, all it did was calm Zayn down, if only that bit, because at least one of them was looking forward to their date.

He moved his still raised hand from left to right, indicating a tiny wave as his eyes took everything that was Harry in.

 

The shortened brown curls on Harry's head, which were still a little too long if you asked him, but no one did then, so he kept it to himself. Harry also seemed to style his hair for a change, product obvious in his locks, but that was okay, Zayn had no complaints surprisingly, because they didn't just fall on his forehead with no form, no direction. The shirt Dr Stygian went on and on about was a good look on Harry, even if it made him look a bit morbid, even if the black fabric of it was covered in a patter of white hearts.

“Ready?” Harry asked, and that was what did it, that word was what calmed him down completely, because yes, he was ready, so just as he gave Harry an affirmative nod, they were off.

 

Not going too far, Harry led them to the too empty dining room, closing the archway doors behind them, finally giving Zayn a much needed opportunity to speak.

“Where is everybody?”

“Oh, I haven't told you anything, have I?” Harry grinned at him as he took a seat, looking down at his hands as he spoke. “I went to Dr Stygian and made a deal with her, so she did pretty much all of the work, but I organized everything. Or just everything she didn't.”

Harry finished speaking like that was all he had to share, like it wasn't Zayn's business to know more, and just as he was about to open his mouth, breath already half way to his lungs, Harry moved his right index to his lips.

 

“Hello boys!” Came a voice behind the kitchen counter. “We tried to make everything you requested and I think we did a good enough job, but you'll be the judge of that.”

Rose popped into view shorty after, carrying a plate in each hand as he strutted towards them, a smile spread across her wrinkled face – Zayn felt bad seeing the old woman carry two over filled plates, her back bent because of her job's circumstances.

“Thanks Rosy,” Harry said through a smile, but it was met with a serious frown.

“Young man! How many times do I have to tell you that my name is Rose?”

“I haven't but the slightest idea, Rosy,” Harry said back and even if someone were to understand it as under minding or just plain old fucking – a lovely, old – woman in the head, it was as far from it as it could've been, because Harry said it with nothing but love and appreciation.

“Oh, you little... ” she decided to just give up. “I'm going home, so if you need anything else, you'll get it tomorrow. Goodbye Harold! Enjoy!”

 

As he heard the doors click close, he raised an inquisitive eyebrow, “Is your full name Harold?”

“No it's not,” Harry shook his head. “Just Harry.”

“Who could understand you two,” he muttered under his breath as he went on to inspect what exactly was on his plate.

The first thing he noticed was that they had different foods covering the white porcelain.

“Yeah, I ordered chicken with like a lot of spices for you and lean turkey for me, 'cause my tongue gets all tingly if, like, any spices get into my food,” Harry explained with his tongue hanging out of his mouth at the end of his sentence to demonstrate just how and where his tongue gets tingly, as he must've seen the way Zayn was looking at their plates, gazing from one to the other and then back again.

“That was actually a really good idea.”

“Why thank you,” Harry added a smile. “So? How do you like our date so far?”

 

They had both dug into their foods and he must admit, that chicken could've easily rivalled his mother's, but don't ever tell her that if you want take another breath.

“So far?,” he said as he put another forkful into his mouth. “So good.” Etiquette had long gone out the window or at least it did when Harry got tired of cutting his lean turkey after the second piece, so he forwent the plastic utensils and started to simply bite away small chunks of it with his teeth.

 

“I could be making it a little less good, but can I ask you a question?” Harry asked, almost afraid to put his words into Zayn's ears and if Harry was afraid, then so was Zayn.

“Um, yeah, I guess.”

“Like if you could live anywhere,” Harry said as he carried a baked potato into his mouth and then continued to speak around it. “Before or now and with whoever, wherever, where would that be?”

“Is this like to get into the depths of my soul?” he joked, but thought seriously all the while. “I guess it would have to be before and with _him_.”

 

He tried to answer as honestly and pain-free as he could, but the more he thought about it, the more the real truth started haunting his thoughts, how he wouldn't pick that time, that person, if he could pick anything, because he would never want to go through it again. He would pick before, no thought needed, but he'd pick the day before he'd met _him,_ he'd avoid ever meeting _him_ and even if he did, he wouldn't've went to the bar to wait for him, not for anything in this world.

He never understood and he still doesn't, how people say that knowing is better than living in a mystery, how taking a chance is always better than laying low, because there's no way of knowing how great something might be, and okay, he'd give them that, it was great, amazing, the best thing in his life even, but what about when the bad out-weights the good? What then? Was is still worth it? Because Zayn doesn't think so. All the wonderful times _they_ had together, he would trade them in for no shared experiences, for nothing, because nothing was, is always, always better than pain.

 

“Hmm,” Harry hummed, seemingly satisfied with his answer.

“What about you?”

“Well I have thought about it and I think I'd pick my childhood,” Harry's face had scrunched up as he was talking, almost as if he were remembering something from that time, something not as pleasant as the boy seemed to be. “It was just so easy being a kid, you know? No problems, no nothing. I could jump around naked all over our house and no one told me off, 'cause I was four and I didn't know any better.”

“You jumped around your house naked when you were little?” Zayn asked, more than amused by Harry's confession.

“Of course! Who didn't?”

“Me?” he admitted. “Never in my life have I jumped around naked.”

“Never?” Harry asked, bewildered more than was necessary. “Dude, you missed out...”

“Dude?” Zayn asked in disbelief and maybe with a hint of a mocking undertone. “Really? Dude?”

 

“What? What's wrong with 'dude'?” Harry's high pitched voice was enough to bring a smile and even a laugh out of Zayn.

“You can _not_ pull of 'dude',” Zayn tried to reason, but to no avail since Harry was taking it as playful teasing, flirting even, when Zayn really thought Harry was not the kind of a guy that could pull of calling someone, anyone 'dude' in any circumstance. Niall maybe, Louis not so much, but possibly Tommo. Harry? More than no.

“I can pull of dude. What's wrong with you?” Harry asked through a smile of his own.

“You can't and a lot of things actually,” Zayn joked back.

 

The debate, or rather the incessant monologue Harry had with himself about just how much dude fit him, how it's 'his thing' carried on for almost 20 if not more minutes, and Zayn, being the listener of the year – there should be an actual award for that, because he would more than deserve it – listened to everything Harry had to say about the word 'dude'.

It was ridiculous, yes, he knows, but do you know or can you even understand how good it feels to listen to someone almost sane that wants to talk to you? _You,_ no one else, just you; fucked up, locked up, committed you. He had Niall, of course, he'll never forget Niall, but that was different, Niall talked to just about everyone in Lakeshore, which includes all of those people only he knew were roaming the halls. Peter talked to him too, but Peter thought Zayn was a general or an officer more times than not, so it didn't count, and neither did Nicky's rants, 'cause she was happy to talk to a wall about her shoes. Matty, Liam and Amanda didn't talk much as it was, so he didn't have that many opportunities to actually listen to them, and while Louis did talk, there was this cool air surrounding him as soon as he opened his mouth, not sharing too much whilst sharing everything he could. Louis was never one to talk about his problems, Tommo didn't think 'they' had any problems and Lou thought that everything they had were problems.

Harry, on the other hand, always seemed to want, to actually _want_ to talk to him, even about what he word dude represented to him, or how one strand of hair curled differently than the others on a particularly humid morning, or maybe because he must've had slept funny. Which ever, Harry wanted to talk to Zayn and Zayn was content, happy to listen to Harry explain which part of the turkey he had just ate was the best.

 

+

 

He should've woken up at 5 o'clock, not 8; he should've felt guilty last night, when we woke up, then, now; he should feel guilty. The first thing he did shouldn't have been going to wake Harry up, and there was no need for his wide, bright smile to be splayed wide across his face as he did so. There was no need for any of it, but he woke up at 8 o'clock, more rested than he had felt in a while, and without thinking about it or having to process it, he walked right up to that red door that almost crumpled him the previous night. And he did all that smiling.

 

After they finished their dinner and Harry had ended his thoughts that he could definitely pull of 'dude', Harry took his hand. It was as confusing as it felt genuinely good, because he hadn't been touched like that, no one had taken his hand – instead of the other way 'round – in so long, he forgot how it felt like to have someone else's palm line up with your own or how perfectly something as simple as hands can fit so well together. He had forgotten how _good_ it felt.

It must've been almost 7 o'clock by then, because he swears he heard Niall complain in the group room about fainting soon if he wouldn't get fed soon. As Harry held his hand tight in his own, he led them straight to Dr Stygian's office and that's the moment Zayn had thought that the boy hadn't been on many dates beforehand, because couple's counselling rarely took place on a first date, but … He can't quite put into words just how happy he is there's a but, yet he'll try his best for the sake of himself and you.

 

But, the office was empty, there was no one besides the two of them in the small space, and as soon as Harry spoke, Zayn's shoulders deflated by a mere foot.

“Remember when I told you that I made a deal with Dr Stygian?” the boy asked with a sly smile. “And remember when I told you that you're taking me to the movies? Well, this is it.”

Harry made a waving motion with his free hand towards the desk in the middle of the room and maybe something should've clicked, but it didn't, no idea what Harry was waving at.

“No?” Harry asked. “She's letting us use her computer in here to watch a movie.”

“Oh,” Zayn said shell-shocked, unable to wrap his mind around it.

“Alone, she's letting us be in here by ourselves to watch a movie,” Harry further explained. “She's gonna come by every 20 minutes though, but she'll just knock and I'm supposed to say we're okay.”

“Oooh,” he said. The idea of watching a movie, whichever movie, with both Harry and Dr Stygian just didn't seem all that appealing to him, not enough to pretend to be excited for it, but watching a movie with Harry, just Harry, was something to smile about, so he did. “Which movie?”

 

He waited for an answer as Harry sat down and started to search for the movie on the desk computer Dr Stygian had, and took the chance to look around. He had been in her small office only once of twice and he never really took the time to look around, to see everything. She had a floor to ceiling bookshelf filled with files and actual book, most of them about psychology, which wasn't out of the ordinary. A two-seater, a one-seater and a desk. Basic, clean, uncluttered, very Dr Stygian if his observations had indeed been correct. The desk had been moved though, it was no longer positioned so that her back would've been facing the big window if she were sitting down, but instead turned, just like the couch, so that they were able to watch the movie Harry seemed more than happy to start watching.

“Don't be creeped out or anything,” Harry said from behind the screen, his back bend. “But I noticed what book you were reading and I haven't read it or watched the movie, so I thought why not, right?”

“You didn't.”

“I so totally did.”

 

Zayn plopped down on the couch, his feet lifting off the floor as he did, a little too violently perhaps as Harry pressed play.

“The book was great,” he said in a hushed tone, leaning to the left, towards Harry.

“Oh, shit,” Harry said as he jumped up and ran to the door. Zayn looked at him in panic, thinking someone was about to walk in, while all Harry did was lock the door. As he did so, he walked back to the couch and settled back in, his eyes already on the screen.

“Okay, what was that about?” Zayn asked.

“Oh, Stygian gave me a key, so no one could barge in on us.”

“She did?” _Is she insane?!_

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged. “She has the other one, like, for an emergency.”

It took him a minute, but he hummed an okay as he too settled back, relaxed, but still on edge, because really, that was just pushing it.

 

Not only was she really going for it, letting them be alone in her office, but a key? Was a key really needed? Did they _have_ to be behind locked doors? Because what if he'd had lost it and started bashing Harry's head in? Could she have really came, unlocked and controlled the situation before it got too far?

 

As the movie rolled on, they didn't speak, they didn't comment, they didn't touch and Zayn didn't pay attention. Harry's hand might've found his before, but it sure forgot about it soon enough. He could have been taking this whole 'date' thing way too seriously, because what if Harry just saw it as two friends hanging out? Or what if he had screwed up somewhere along the way and didn't even notice and now Harry was letting him down softly and with the least pain required? What if-. _Oh._

 

To this day, Zayn can't help but smile at the memory of Harry fake yawning, stretching out his hands and placing his right arm around his shoulders. Cheesy as all hell, but damn did it work, instantly putting Zayn in his relaxed mode, something he forgot was an option as he finally, really settled into the couch, just as John and Jenny got Marley. However strange, it was like Harry was a drug of sorts, the best kind, quality stuff, because the boy didn't make him uncooperative or broody and sleepy, but instead mellow and pliant, exactly like he wanted to be. So as he tried to pay attention to the movie with one eye already closed, his head started to fall, slowly, as his neck felt weaker and weaker, leaning on Harry's chest and he wasn't asleep just yet, still had all his senses for a couple of seconds as he felt Harry's arm tighten around him, felt Harry move underneath him, so that Zayn was more comfortable, would have more room on Harry's broad chest and he did.

That's when he must've lost his senses, consciousness, because the next thing he remembers is fluttering his eyes open to a completely dark room, no movie on a screen, no screen, and not in Dr Stygian's office, but in his bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a second and tell me what you think, because I would really like to know!  
> Thank you for reading!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When your ten years have gone by, you have to remember that there's no use in giving up then. You already made it passed those ten. You'll make it pass another ten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me? I've been putting off uploading this chapter, because I don't know, I'm not really feeling it? But it's here and I hope you like it more than I do.

 

It's not that repetitive things get under your skin, the things that happen more than once, those that didn't before, but it is a similar feeling, isn't it? It really does feel like someone would've slowly inserted a needle into those veins that always seem to bulge out of Zayn's forearms, with nothing but a strong concentration of Harry.

 

Because marching down that hallway, past the stairs, with his teeth just brushed, he felt high as if he had smoked a strong something, as if he were floating, floating on a cloud if it doesn't sound to worn out, as if he were in the middle of a field.

Floating towards that red door, he knocked once and walked in, knowing there was no point in waiting. What he was met with was Liam's empty bed and Harry's, a body in it, star-fished beneath the covers. And it wasn't what he had expected.

What was he supposed to do when Harry was sleeping, more than out of it, if Zayn's knock hadn't been enough to wake the boy?

 

And just as he was about to turn on his heel and leave, Harry mumbled into the pillow. “I kissed your cheek before I left last night. You could return the favour, you know.”

“Oh, really?” he said, more because he didn't know what else to say, the words coming out of his mouth almost as a reflex.

“It'd be the polite thing to do is all,” Harry continued hopefully.

“You think so?” Zayn played along, having too good of a morning to get thrown off.

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

 

In all his convincing, Harry had only moved his head up the littlest amount when he spoke, so that Zayn'd understood what he was saying. Harry had proved to be – despite waking up at 5 most days – a heavy and long sleeper, just as Zayn had used to be, as he hopes to be again one day, as he knows he never will be.

 

He covered those two feet or so that were still separating him from Harry and his bed with ease, leaned down as nonchalantly as one could and placed his lips on the boy's left cheek. He did everything as smoothly as he was able to; with no unnecessary pauses or glitches, contrary to his human nature. But it was just because his fucking human nature prevailed because of the physical contact, that he paused, loading all the newly received information to his brain, because his brain needed to know, to get all of those 'juicy' details, as if it were a fifteen year old girl's.

 

But that's exactly what had happened, and he still blames Harry's shampoo and Harry's skin – smooth, with no stubble what so ever, unlike his own – for the added nanosecond – which to his defence had felt like hours; at least – of lingering.

Before he even had the chance to stand up straight, Harry turned on his back, grabbed his face in his large hands and planted a sloppy, closed mouth kiss on Zayn's lips.

 

And that was it...

 

His brain turned off, finally standing up straight, staring at a non-specific point in front of him, as his mind started to jump.

“Zayn?” Harry asked weakly.

_Nope, no way. Nuh-uh._

 

“Zayn?” Harry's voice got higher, pitcher, nervous. “Don't freak out, okay?”

He knew there had to be a reason Harry was at Lakeshore, because _really?!_ How in hell was Harry expecting him not to have freaked out?

“Zayn, breathe. Just, take a deep breath and... Sit. Yeah, sit down,” by that point, seeing as Zayn hadn't moved, blinked or, if he remembers correctly, even took a single breath, they were _both_ pretty much freaking out. But even an invitation to sit down on Harry's bed, next to him, hadn't been enough to make him move, to bring him back to life – metaphorically speaking of course. (Maybe.)

 

Their date went... Okay? 'Cause really, there were no expectations for sparks, fireworks or the like – on Zayn's side at least. He hoped Harry wasn't expecting a date for the books, one of those epic things they'd remember for all their lives, tell their grandchildren about, because if that were the case, if Harry had expected some sort of sweeping of anyone's feet, he was more than severely disappointed. But Harry wasn't disappointed, was he? And even if he was, he sure as fuck wasn't showing it. And yeah, he might've maybe definitely fallen asleep before he even had the chance to see 5 minutes of the movie, but he's only willing to take part of the blame for that. If Harry hadn't been so comfortable to sleep on, he wouldn't have fallen sleep now, would he?

 

Right. The kiss. Why Harry thought that had been a good idea – especially because of their more than complicated start – was lost on Zayn. And with all this dating and kissing going on, he couldn't – yet it wasn't like he had tried particularly hard – to get _the_ question out of his head.

_Why was Harry here? What's wrong with him?_

Louis, Niall, Liam, Peter, himself, even Nicky to some degree all had their apparent or subtle reasons to be at Lakeshore. Harry? Yeah, not so much. All of those wounds he had seen, that unrequested glance he'd gotten, told him the age of Harry's scars and they weren't exactly yesterday's. So that couldn't have been the reason. He couldn't –. He didn't know.

 

 

“I'm sorry,” he heard a whisper. “I'm so sorry Zayn. I shouldn't have done that.”

“No,” he practically spat out. “No, don't apologize.”

He  _finally_ broke his eye-contact with the nothingness that had entranced him for however long. “It's not,” he tried his best to say something, anything that would make even the slightest sense. “I'm just –.”

“Are you okay?” Harry asked tentatively.

“Mhm,” he hummed, deciding it as a clear enough answer as he threw one eye towards Harry and the bed the boy was then sitting on the edge of.

 

He lazily moved his feet, sat down on the bed and exhaled. He ex-haled, breathed out, an output of air, a huff and  _it_ was gone. His brain rebooted, eyes as clear as day, his lungs working properly yet again.

“I probably shouldn't have done that, huh?” His head wanted to turn towards the source of the ever so quiet words, but he'd decided he enjoyed the carpet's intricate patterns much too much to overt his gaze in _any_ other direction.

“No, you probably shouldn't have,” he shook his head. “But it's okay that you did.”

He isn't sure if he had managed to smile, instructing his lips to curl, but presumingly failing to do so.

“It is?”

“Yeah.”

“Then can I kiss you again?”

 

He moved his eyes to his left without really turning his head, trying to convey as much as he could alongside his words. “Let's take a rain check on that.”

“Fine, yeah, of course.” Harry paused for what seemed as just the right amount of time. “But don't make it a long rain check of I'm just gonna have to attack you again.”

 

Zayn huffed out a breath, his lips curling up at last, as he internally and visually relaxed. “I won't.”

“Okay then,” Harry said with a completely different demeanour, an easy smile stretching his lips as he patted the mattress next to his own thighs. “Let me get ready and what not, and we'll go have breakfast.”

“If they're still serving it, yeah.”

“Oh, shit.” Harry launched towards his closet, laughing. “ _We_ 've never been late to breakfast, have we? Our first.”

“And to think,” Zayn said to himself with his own small smirk as he grabbed the door's handle, his back turned to Harry. “Twice in one day.”

 

+

 

“Babe?”

“Mmm,” he successfully mumbled into his pillow, sleep still fogging every part of his body.

“Babe, wake up. I made you breakfast.”

“Mmm,” he mumbled again, though this time he did want to use actual proper English words. “We don't have apples.”

He felt a pair of soft, too soft lips graze over the corner of his mouth, felt breath on his tired skin, fingertips on his bare hip. “I went to the market.”

 

“Okay,” he said unconvincingly. “I'm up, I'm up.”

With a kiss to his cheek, he felt the following words on his earlobe, “Come outside when you get around to waking up.”

After mumbling an additional “Okay,” he spread out his limps, stretching his arms above his head as far as he could, the freaking headboard always in the way, a small yelp escaping his lips along the way.

 

This thing, being woken up with small grazes of fingers or lips, a soft humming voice floating around his ears, sometimes promises being made just so that he'd gotten out of bed, and finally doing so at whatever time of early morning or late afternoon, because _he_ was there, sitting on their balcony, patiently waiting for Zayn to join _him._

He got under his skin just as easily; joining him, since he no longer needed a wake up call, on the side porch, doing all the right things, saying all his words carefully, trying his best with everything.

 

If he could pick a time and place, whenever, wherever, if that were an option, if he could do that with no repercussions, he'd pick them, before everything started, before he met him, the day before and he'd do everything in his power to do it again.

Maybe he'd do it differently, but not by much, he'd just hope for a different, alternate ending this time 'round, all the while knowing nothing would actually change, that he'd still end up here, but that doesn't matter, because if it came down to choosing, he'll always pick Harry.

 

+

 

He would've honestly been worried if he hadn't have woken up that night, seeing as half the town were thrown to their feet and were ripped from their beds at 2 in the morning, the screaming louder than it had ever been.

It might have been, but it didn't sound quite like the usual outburst everyone knew so well, the one everyone was accustomed to, the kind everybody slept through. This time it was primal, wild, uncontrolled – agonizingly desperate.

Everyone was used to the pain-filled cries for release that came nightly, like clockwork, more precise than the sun itself.

 

They weren't allowed to leave the thresholds of their rooms, but Paul let them stand there, behind invisible lines they all knew, running from wall to wall, everyone only able to poke their heads out of their rooms to supervise and observe what was going on.

As soon as Niall was done staring, Zayn took his turn, but his eyes didn't travel to that single-bed room like everyone else's, his gaze immediately landed on the attention demanding red door frame, under which Liam was standing, his arms crossed over his chest, a firm expression on his face and no one beside him.

 

And the boy must've felt Zayn, must've sensed his panic as Zayn stared at Liam and not at Amanda's barely moving body being carried out of her room on stretches by the paramedics.

The paramedics, it's, he's, – . The paramedic – .

 

As his eyes locked with those of the paramedic's, with Jack's, coming out of Amanda's room after the two others, dressed in bright and flashy red uniforms, each at one end of the stretches, his body froze, Jack's body froze; everything froze.

 

His legs though, his legs seemed to be working quite nicely as he took a step, his foot landing on the carpet leading to his and Niall's room, over Paul's invisible line.

Paul was too busy, his back turned away from Zayn, too occupied by Amanda to pay attention to everyone and everything else, but Liam, with his quietness and awkward demeanour, with his eyes on Zayn, was looking closely, paying attention to his every move, the boy's eyes getting wider with his every additional step towards Jack.

 

When he approached the stairs, when his whole body was out of his room, when he couldn't help but to take another step, Liam took one too, bigger than Zayn's had been, big enough for Paul to raise his head, looking as infuriated as Zayn can imagine.

“Liam!” Paul little less than shouted, but before Paul and his gang of helpers were even able to move, Liam's arm lifted, his index finger pointing at something right behind Paul's back.

“Wha– ,” slipped past Paul's lips as every body in the hallway turned, suddenly their eyes on Zayn if they hadn't been there before.

“Zayn! Get back in your room!” Tom said fiercely, moving in Paul's stead, but all Zayn was able to register were two simple, painful things: how Jack's head dipped down, as he must've ultimately remembered why Zayn's face looked familiar, and Harry, who came into view, standing behind Liam, his eyes redder than _his had been_ when _they_ used to smoke _themselves_ senseless.

 

“Don't touch him,” Harry practically hissed at Tom, who immediately stopped in his track and turned around, though not knowing where to look for further instructions: Paul, Harry or one of the doctors.

“Harry,” Dr Stygian said, looking from Harry to Zayn. "That's not how things work here. You know that."

Harry closed his eyes as he heard Dr Stygian's words, almost as if he had seen the ghost of his past. “Let's switch then,” he said, confusing Zayn and everyone else for that matter, except for her. “Me for Niall.”

 

In unison, everyone turned from Harry to her, anticipation so thick Dr Stygian looked at the floor as she whispered a quiet, “Okay.”

Niall and Harry practically ran across the much too crowded hall, Harry grabbing Zayn's elbow this time, dragging Zayn away to his room this time and closing the door behind them as soon as they were both in this time.

Nothing had registered, he didn't know what was happening, not since he saw Jack, since the first flash of red appeared in the hallway, black hair on his forehead, blue eyes looking straight into his brown ones with confusion, a frown etching itself on the guy's too familiar face. That day, _that_ day had been hard enough, the flashes of pain in his chest enough of a remainder to make sure he'll never forget; ever. It's almost as if he took care of it, tried his best at destroying any physical memory left by himself and yet here he was, all 5 foot 9 of him, the one thing, one person that still remains – Jack.

 

“Who is he?” Harry asked as he sat down on Niall's unmade bed.

“Why are your eyes so red?” Zayn asked, changing the topic instead of answering.

“Zayn, who is he?”

“Answer me and I'll tell you.”

 

“Ugh,” Harry grumbled, but gave up, his shoulders slumping down, his straight back curving in on itself as he rolled the sleeved of his jumper up, revealing his scarred skin. “Remember when you had a tough morning? Well, I'm having a shitty day,” he said with his voice horse, choking under the pressure of Zayn's question. “Your turn.”

“His name's Jack. I met him a couple of months ago when I was sitting alone in the hospital,” he said, ducking his head down. “He saw I was alone in the waiting room, so he came up to me, distracted me.”

 

“Zayn,” his name rolled off Harry's tongue as if it had been there for years, as if he couldn't believe Zayn hadn't told him about Jack sooner.

“Why are you having a shitty day?” Zayn asked, done with his confession, wanting something in return.

“I– ,” Harry tried. “I can't tell you that.”

His eyes moved from Harry's face, down his torso to his more than ever exposed arms. “Why do you do that?” he said, pointing his chin, trying to make his voice sound as least judgemental as possible.

“I can't, Zayn. I'm sorry,” Harry said after a few seconds of silence, shaking his head.

“Then why are you here?” Zayn pushed that last inch, not knowing if curiosity got the best of him, in the moment, of it he just wanted a reaction out of Harry, something, an answer or a scream at least, the boy suddenly too apathetic for his taste. He wanted to know what was going through Harry's head.

 

“Zayn!” Harry yelled, his eyes mad. “Stop! I can't!”

Before Zayn had a chance to interject, to make his case, to make Harry tell him, a hard and profusive knock echoed through the room.

“Harry?!” her voice resonated in both their ears. “Is everything okay?!”

“Yeah,” he yelled back, probably before he even realized what he as saying, his hands shaking, eyes still red. “Yeah, 's fine.”

“Okay,” Dr Stygian's voice was quieter then, unsure yet trusting. “We're right here if you need us.”

“Yeah, okay.”

 

After what Zayn deemed as a painful amount of silence, as Harry simply continued to sit on the bed, eyes turned down, avoidant of Zayn's gaze and Zayn still standing, waiting for Harry, though not sure why, he spoke, realizing Harry was waiting for him as well.

“Harry,” he said, keeping his eyes on the boy as he took a step forward. “ I'm sorry, but I– .”

 

They both released shaky breaths, neither of them trusting the other to say, to do the right thing, so Zayn took a moment. He took another shaky breath, tried to steady himself desperately as he covered the distance separating him and the bed Harry had been sitting on. He sat down next to the boy, but something told him he should still keep a distance between them, so he did, sitting down on the other end of the mattress.

 

“You know,” he started, keeping his eyes on the floor. “I thought I would never be able to speak again. I was sure of it, even with Niall, I thought I could never have an actual real conversation again… And then you showed up. The fact that I was able to speak to Niall wasn't that impressive, 'cause it's Niall, you know?”

Harry huffed out a breath, his lips curling a little –enough.

“And so me speaking to you meant– ,” he stopped himself, bringing his eyes up to meet Harry's “It means so much to me. Harry, I've told you more about myself than I have anyone else, ever. Before, people had to drag information out of me, but with you, I just seem to share everything, and I don't know. I'm not sure how much I like giving pieces of me away to get nothing in return.”

 

Harry raised his head to spare a glance at Zayn before he dropped it back down, staring at his feet.

“Zayn, I know how hard it is for you, believe me, I know, but I can't,” Harry said, his voice shaking. “But I get these like, moments. I don't know how to explain it, but it's like you give me these moments where I think I could tell you something, give you piece,” he said with a barely there smile. “Share, but I can't. I want to, I just can't.”

“Then why does everyone else know why you're here?” Zayn asked with his tone of voice accusatory maybe, but it had been on his mind for a while then. “Why am I the only one?”

“Who's everyone else? Because as far as I can tell, no one here knows, not even Liam.”

“No one knows?” Zayn asked.

“Nope,” Harry said, relaxing on the bed. “Well, Dr S knows, but, that's different.”

 

“Do you think I'll ever know?” Biting his lip, he gave it one last chance.

Harry turned to look at him with what could've possibly been a half smile spread on his face. “Maybe.”

 

For some reason, over which Zayn has admittedly lost more hours of sleep than he'd like to think about, it felt right, almost like one of those moments Harry was talking about – unexplainable.

He moved closer to Harry, turning his body, so that his left leg was bent on the bed, the other dangling off the edge, Harry mirroring his movements.

They didn't do much, just sat, stayed like that, looked at each other, really saw the other person in front of their eyes.

It was different – usually, when they were together like this, spending endless time alone, they didn't pay much attention to each other, not like this, because knowing they were together was enough. And so having the time to take the other one in, to look, to see, to pay as much attention as they could've was different.

 

They both knew, both feeling what was coming up, what their next move was gonna be and so neither responded to the feeling, neither cared, neither flinching away. Zayn was the one to move first this time, though Harry met him halfway, impatient as always, and yet even as they finally connected, as Zayn's rain check finally came, as his lips touched Harry's, there was no thought, no hint, no sign of _him._ And he didn't feel guilty, because this was their moment, his and Harry's, no room left for _him_ between them.

 

As Harry's fingertips grazed his sides, palms finding his hips, Zayn realized, finally saw as clear as day that he was fucked as he's never been, knowing Harry's hands belonged there, should've never left his skin. He tangled his fingers in Harry's messy curls, not helping with the boy's unstyled mop of hair as he leaned his head to the left, Harry to the right, the boy gently running his tongue on Zayn's bottom lip.

Zayn grabbed for Harry's shirt at the boy's back as he parted his lips, a move of emotion, of feeling everything all at once washing over him, forgetting to breathe.

 

Lost in the moment, he didn't think, didn't over analyse his every move, Harry's every thought, no plan for what he should've done next. And Harry must've felt the same, because the boy soon took over, his grip on Zayn's hips firmer, tugging his shirt, bruising his skin as he put his weight there, tipping Zayn over, so that he was soon laying on his back, Harry on top of him, their legs tangled together.

Zayn filled his lungs with a much needed gulp of air as Harry moved his lips to his jaw, bellow his ear, right on his pulse point, probably feeling Zayn's more than ever erratic heartbeat.

As Harry sucked and bit at Zayn's neck, creating bruise after bruise, the boy rolled his hips, only once, a deadly slow movement. So slow, Zayn shivers as he remembers the feeling of it, the gasp it tore from his lungs, his hand flying to Harry's back, his own hips lifting off the bed.

 

And as if that hadn't been enough, Harry moved his legs, his knee rutting right at that point, so close to that sweet spot, the moan escaping his mouth brought him back, sobering him up as fast as Harry did it again, Zayn raising his own knee up, making Harry almost fall apart above him, moaning too.

“Zayn,” Harry breathed into his skin, etching the word along his other tattoos as his hands moved away from Zayn's hips, Zayn ready to protest.

 

Harry's fingers hooked themselves into the waistband of his baggy sweats, pulling them down slowly as Zayn's own hands flew to catch Harry's, to stop him.

With flashes of red dancing in front of his eyes, he froze, willing his body to stay still instead of run, as his brain was practically screaming at him to do.

“Zayn?” Harry breathed again, this time though, into the space between them, the word so weak it didn't reach his skin, barely enough to hear. No longer was it said with passion Zayn wasn't aware he needed; no longer were they so close, skin melting into skin, no space between them for either of their demons.

 

_He_ had room now, enough space to come and separate them further, but he didn't want Harry to go, to leave him, to not be so close, as close as he was before, as he's ever been.

His hands still on Harry's, he tightened his hold, interlocking their fingers as he brought them up, away from the elastic waistband and up to his waist.

Harry's thumbs sinked into his skin, tracing the lines of his ribs reassuringly as he stayed motionless, breathing steadily as much as he could've had, heartbeat still jumping in unexpected intervals.

“You're okay,” Harry said softly, his voice as raspy as it has ever been, at least to Zayn's ears, as he bent back down, placing his lips on Zayn's jaw, kissing him tenderly . “You're okay.”

Zayn would've exploded if the words had been coming from anyone else, sounding more as a command than anything else – especially to him.

 

He closed his eyes, finding relief in the dancing stars behind his lids, the blues and reds almost immediately. He never wanted, never needed this in his life, never asked for it, but no one said life is fair, that you only get what you can handle, no one ever said it was gonna be fun. His dad warned him, had the good sense of telling him to be careful when Zayn told them, but Zayn wasn't thankful, he didn't feel like his dad was looking out for him, giving him advice, protecting his only son. So he didn't listen, he never listens.

 

“Open your eyes,” Harry said with his lips on Zayn's neck. “Please.”

And he did, fighting against everything he was, everything he once had, he opened his eyes. Harry was smiling in the most reassuring way he's ever had, making Zayn keep his eyes opened, continuing his fight.

“Hi,” Harry said in the way he always did.

“Hey,” Zayn replied, unsure of his voice.

“I'm sorry.” Harry lowered his gaze, his head dipping down, his shoulders too.

“Yeah,” Zayn breathed, thinking. “I know.”

 

Harry finally got off of him, gracelessly falling to his left, separating himself from Zayn completely, all previous physical contact lost.

“I didn't– ,” Harry said, closing his eyes as his forehead scrunched up, the urge to trace the lines appearing unexpectedly strong to Zayn, bigger even to make them disappear. “I thought it was okay.”

“It was,” Zayn rushed, their roles reversed, as he moved to lay on his side, still not touching Harry. “I mean, it was, until it wasn't.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, still not opening his eyes.

“Slower next time, yeah?” Zayn asked after thinking it over, deciding he had nothing to loose – or at least not too much.

 

He remembers smiling as Harry opened his eyes, turning his head to look at Zayn; counting it as a small victory.

“Yeah,” Harry repeated again, stronger this time, less breathy and with more intent, sure in his own words.

 

Knowing Niall was most likely dead asleep on Harry's bed – had been for at least an hour – he inched closer to Harry, moving his leg between Harry's, the boy in turn rapping his arm around Zayn's waist, bringing him closer too, chest to chest, his palm resting reassuringly on his lower back.

Zayn opened his eyes one last time to wish Harry a good night, as he saw Harry's face; nervous, anxious expression covering his too soft face.

 

He can say that he doesn't believe he knew what was going through Harry's head in that moment, but it would be a lie. He can say he was going on a hunch, a wish, a hope he wanted to be true, but he'd be lying. So when he says that he knew, that without Harry explicitly telling him, he still knew why the boy looked so nervous, that every thought running through Harry's head was also going through his; that that's the reason why he leaned in, joined their lips together, kissed Harry best way he knew how, it's not an excuse, it's the truth.

 

And so with Harry's lips still lingering on his, with the feel of a kiss still on his lips, he fell asleep like he hasn't in too long.

 

+

 

 

“So? You've got the goods?” Niall whispered across the table to Louis.

“My friend,” Louis said, his hand on chest. “I do.”

“And?” Niall prompted as Louis didn't continue.

“All in good time,” Louis said, his eyes going from Harry to him. “First, explain to me again why these too look ready to smother you in your sleep.”

“Don't give me ideas,” Harry gritted his teeth and if he could've brought himself to do it, Zayn would've given Niall another round of curses, meaner and louder than he had that morning.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Niall defended himself, hands in the air. “Don't blame me for waking you two up. It's not my fault you fell asleep on my bed.”

 

“Uuu,” Louis sing-sung at them. “Things get hot last night, huh?”

Just as he thought he was left defenceless, nothing he could've done about it, his leg shot forward, first hitting Niall's leg, then kicking Louis' something.

“Uncalled for,” Louis grumbled, massaging his leg. “That's a foul.”

“Nice one,” Harry said with a smile, looking at him, and Zayn really had to fight it, more than he thought he would have to, to not lean over and kiss those plump lips.

 

“Whatever,” Niall scoffed.

“Back to the point,” Louis demanded attention again, a thing Tommo usually did. “So. I went around, charming the lovely employees here, and all I know is that Amanda's not coming back soon. Or maybe ever.”

Zayn elbowed Harry in a completely loving way, no harm meant, more of a reminder of what Zayn said to ask Louis.

“Right,” the boy remembered and asked, like was reading the questions off of a list. “What happened, why did it happen and what did Stygian say?”

 

“Look Niall,” Louis said with a smirk, pointing across the table. “Zaynie here's got Harry all trained.”

“Oh fuck you,” Harry dead panned, as Zayn joined him in that thought with his own evil glare.

 

“Basically, she had one of her episodes or whatever, but it was a lot worse than her previous ones, 'cause yesterday was an anniversary of something, I think? And Styg hasn't come back yet,” Louis explained half-heartedly.

“Oh, right! Paul said that everything's rescheduled to tomorrow,” Niall added, looking at Zayn in the way he did hen he wasn't sure of what his reaction was gonna be. “Counselling too.”

 

Hearing what Niall said, Harry dropped his spoon and placed his hand on the small of Zayn's back, making sparks run up and down his spine as his mind wandered to when he was laying awake, almost an hour before, Harry's hand in the exact same place as it had been for the whole night.

Zayn shrugged, saying it was okay best way he learned, best way he could then.

It didn't take them long to go back to eating – Harry his granola cereal and Zayn his green apple and slice of bread.

 

He wanted to think about Amanda, wanted ti remember her, but all that his mind was willing to think about, was how mad he got every night – whether she woke him up or not – when the screaming would start. How he wanted it to stop, how painful it was to hear someone so openly scream in agony while he barely managed to speak to two people.

 

He more felt than saw Harry leaning over to him, cereal on spoon ready to be taken to his mouth.

“What do you wanna do today?” The boy asked quietly.

Zayn shrugged, the images of books and earphones flashing around him, but reading didn't seem as appealing to him as he'd thought it would.

“We could lounge in the armchairs?” Harry proposed, but Zayn lightly shook his head no, as both of them took another bite of their foods.

“We could hang out with Louis and Niall?”

Another shake, followed by another bite.

“What do you wanna do?” Harry asked, desperate to please, the willingness to do whatever Zayn wanted evident in the raspiness of his voice, but all Zayn found himself doing was shrugging – yet again.

 

He wasn't in a reading mood, not the kind of day to spend with those crazies either, but he also didn't feel like being outside, the weather too murky even for his liking, small droplets of rain silently falling to the ground.

The days he wanted to be alone, feeling sorry for himself in solitude were becoming fewer in between the days he wanted to be surrounded by curls, endless green and dimpled left cheeks.

 

He went to grab Harry's hand, putting it palm up in his left hand, right index extended and ready, as he started to slowly trace a curving line into Harry's skin.

The boy laughed softly as he shook his head. “I got you a phone so you wouldn't have to do that.”

“Shhh,” Zayn shushed through his own smile as he made Harry pay attention to his efforts.

“Okay,” Harry said, closing his eyes, alert. “S. S, l. S, l, e, e? Oh, yeah, could use some more shut-eye myself.”

 

+

 

Well aware the phrase, if not solely the word, had already been properly over-used, it still describes the situation, his feelings wholly, because spending their afternoon in Zayn's bed was nice.

There were no hips rolling, no tongues exploring or touches lingering for hours on end. Zayn, more than genially lay on his back while Harry was tucked into his side. And it was fucking nice.

 

He can't tell you in which thoughts he lost himself at that point, all he knows is that he wasn't fully there, running his fingertips up and down Harry's back. The moment, though, is still engraved in his memory, of how Harry's lips would occasionally ghost along his neck, making his eyelids shutter and his lips stretch that smallest amount; enough so to say it was a smile.

 

After Harry had left, saying he had an appointment of sorts and not much more, Zayn sat up in his bed, looking at the bare wall above Niall's bed as he started to plan his thing. His 'whole thing'.

It didn't take him long to figure out, to know he too would've needed the help of Dr Stygian – more permission than help though.

 

+

 

_He_ planned  _their_ second date, texting Zayn the morning after  _they_ grabbed that drink at that bar, saying to be ready at 4 o'clock.

Needless to say, Zayn had a series of small and completely expected heart-attacks, reading the text over and over, still telling himself  _he_ 's gonna let him down easy, that that was the reason  _he_ asked Zayn out again – to crush him softly.

 

_He_ picked him up at 4:13, which led Zayn to almost have a real heart attack, feeling little stabs of pain in his left arm and everything. But  _he_ showed up, flowers in one hand and the other rapped around Zayn's shoulders in a half hug.

_He_ didn't know Zayn, not really, not then, when it was the second time  _they_ were sharing a common space together, and yet it's still the second best date he's ever been on. 

 

Dinner first, a little Italian restaurant that makes the best pasta in LA, or so  _he_ had said with a shy smile, obviously nervous – though Zayn being Zayn, got the reason completely wrong. And  _he_ didn't lie. The pasta  _they_ ordered – Zayn, spaghetti alla Bolognese and  _him,_ farfatalle con Pesto all genovesse – lived up to  _his_ praises, almost better than his mother's. Almost.

 

They talked, the standard getting to know each other conversation Zayn smiled through because he decided – despite his brain yelling against it pretty profusely – to give  _him_ a chance, that it might actually not be a way  _he_ had engineered to let him down easy, but an actual date. Having his self-destructive nature at an arm's length, he decided to give  _him_ a chance, at least for the next five minutes.

 

_He_ told Zayn  _he_ was an architect, worked from home, which was the goal in the first place and Zayn asked, of course he did, he asked why, because although he saw the appeal of not having to commute to an office everyday, he wanted to know why someone so seemingly full of energy would want to work from home, and  _he_ , politely if not anything else, avoided answering the question and rather asked Zayn about his work. 

And so Zayn had easily labelled the sudden tension between  _them_ as his own nervousness, telling  _him_ what  _he_ wanted to know. That he wanted to be an English teacher, but went to study business and management instead. That he wanted to follow his dreams, but followed his father's instead.

 

_He_ appropriately asked Zayn a question he's never known how to answer: if he's happy. Because yes, he was happy studying how to run a successful business he was more than likely to inherit. It was something he grew up around, something that meant a lot to his family, but also no, he wasn't happy, because he wanted to be an English teacher.

It had always been difficult, finding a balance between achieving, making his own happiness, success, and his parents', but because he already felt guilty enough by burdening them with not being able to invite them to his wedding or to give them grandchildren, he sacrificed a little of his happy for his mom's and dad's.

You can see how well that worked out for him.

 

Still debating whether his answer had clarified anything in the slightest,  _he_ interrupted his train of thought.

“We have to go or we'll miss the show.”

“What show?”

“You'll see,” _he_ said as _he_ stood up, a sly smirk stretching _his_ lips.

And yes, a dinner and then a movie would've been clichéd, beyond the limits of irony, and it would've just plainly hurt, so it's a good thing  _he_ didn't take him to see a movie, but an actual real show.

 

It was well after 6 o'clock when  _they_ sat in  _his_ black BMW, Zayn anticipating a movie and  _him_ being far too nervous for who  _he_ was sitting next to.

The show, as  _he_ so freely interpreted, was actually so much better than a movie could've ever been.  _They_ parked on a hill-top Zayn's not only never been on, but honestly didn't know of its existence until that night.

 

_They_ both half sat, half laid  on the blanket  _he_ conveniently brought and it really, truly was a show. The town bellow them, tens of thousands of lights barely apparent as the sun was setting, purples, oranges, the sky above painted in royal colours.

“It's beautiful,” Zayn whispered, afraid he'd ruin the beauty.

“It is,” _he_ whispered back and as Zayn turned to look at _him, he_ wasn't looking at the lights or the sky either, _he_ was looking at Zayn with one of those smiles Zayn misses.

 

Zayn felt his cheeks burn with a bright red as he turned back to admire the view.

“It's gonna start soon,” _he_ then said, laying down on the blanket, no longer propped by _his_ elbows.

“Huh?” Zayn raised an eyebrow. “You mean this isn't it?”

“No. I mean, it is beautiful,” _he_ said, smiling at Zayn again. “But we came to see something else. More beautiful.”

 

And it was. As soon as the sun had stopped demanding everyone's attention in the sky, dipping down behind the intrusive buildings and skyscrapers, the first stars started shyly announcing their presence on the still brightly lit sky.

“It's starting,” _he_ whispered lastly, as a serene silence fell all around them, the moon suddenly illuminating the sky like Zayn thought the sun never could; not then.

One by one the stars became noticeable, some barely there specks, while others shone as bright as the moon.

“So?” _he_ asked, nervous.

“It's– ,” Zayn started, but couldn't find that word, the one that would've fit what he was seeing, describing what he felt in that moment, and so as he gave up on trying to find it, that one words, he turned his head, laying by then too, and looked at _him_.

 

It's painful, incredibly so, to think about how beautiful _he_ looked that night, how otherwordly; it's hard to admit that he fell in love with _him,_ when all _he_ did was take Zayn star-gazing. And it's hard, because yeah, now it's painful to think about, but so it was then – falling in love with someone so quickly, so head over everything – but then it's also how Zayn operates.

So he didn't try to find that word, to try to explain, he simply leaned that lightest bit and kissed _his_ left cheek. _He_ giggled like a little kid and moved to lay on _his_ hip, _his_ palm gentle on the side of Zayn's neck, _his_ thumb behind Zayn's ear just so as _he_ kissed him softly on the lips.

 

It was a simple peck, just like the many more that had followed over the years they spent together, hand in hand, facing the world head on, and all it had in-store for them; just a simple peck.

 

+

 

Dr Stygian came back after two days of everything being cancelled: group, counselling, activities; everything. She came back and Zayn was the first patient she had a scheduled appointment with. Sitting in his spot, in his green arm-chair, he wanted to ask her everything Niall and Louis weren't able to find out from the other nurses, like where's Amanda and what happened, but most of all, if Amanda was okay.

Sitting where they always did, they were both gazing out the window, grey clouds still obstructing August's sun rays, lines of rain crawling down the two windows, and they sat there, quiet, too quiet.

 

“She's not coming back,” Dr Stygian said after almost half an hour and Zayn wished she wouldn't have spoken, wouldn't have broken the silent wishes he had.

_Not coming back? Why?_

He kept his head in place as his eyes flashed to his right, seeing her looking down, her eyes forcefully closed and a strand of lose hair falling on her forehead.

 

When he was sitting in his chair at 9 o'clock, after he ate his breakfast, Harry was dozing off next to him, Liam was watching his morning shows and Niall and Peter were playing cards behind him. But then, when it was almost 10, Harry moved to his room, knowing he'd have to move soon anyway. Liam disappeared soon after, the TV turned off and there were no signs of Niall or Peter either, no more curses being spat behind him in a thick, Irish accent. So when she came to sit next to him they were alone, with just the sounds of rain droplets falling outside, with uncomfortable silence around them.

 

“Ten years ago,” she said, her head still down. “It was the tenth anniversary of her son's death. That's why it was so bad.”

Zayn closed his eyes too then, brought his knees up against him chest, feeling like every breath was his last, knowing she had to fight back her tears.

“After ten years,” she continued, and she must've turned to look at him then, because he was able to hear her better, realizing he was meant to hear her, to listen. “When your ten years have gone by, you have to remember that there's no use in giving up then. You already made it passed those ten. You'll make it pass another ten.”

And she might have been right.

 

“She wasn't my patient, but it's still hard,” she said and he opened his eyes, keeping his gaze on the window. “It's hard losing one of you.”

In that moment, she was no longer his psychiatrist, he was aware of that, but he knew no one ever said that your shrink won't need someone to listen, to help them with whatever they were going through themselves, and more than anything, Zayn was glad he was able to be that for her, to be the one she'd maybe trusted.

 

Her notes had been on her knees since she sat down, and so were her hands placed almost neatly on the chair's armrests, palms on the rough material of it. As he looked at her, careful no to catch her probably more than broken expression, he covered her hand with his, gently squeezing her fingers to tell her – in his own small way – that he heard her, that he had listened.

She smiled in return, easily curving her lips as she turned her palm and intertwined their fingers.

“Thank you.”

He smiled too, ducking his head down, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden, but also remembering what he wanted to do next.

 

He took his hand away and reached for her notes and pen, quickly searching for a blank piece of paper. Finding it, he looked at her and she nodded, saying it was okay. Clicking the pen open, he took no time to scribble the few words, handing it over as she nodded again, this time smiling. He wrote a simple thanks bellow the two lines and handed her the notes back.

“Okay,” she said, running her fingertips under her eyes, careful not to smudge her make up. “That's all for today. I hope it goes okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always!  
> And a comment would make my day. Just sayin'.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That's the oldest one,” Harry whispered as he sat up straight. “My first one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I'd like to thank anyone who sees this. Thank you for reading my story. I really hope you like it!  
> Thank you to anyone who's come this far!  
> Also and finally, I give you a somewhat smutty chapter, I guess? But I'd like to warn you beforehand, that I tried to make it as least smutty as I possibly could, because it isn't about that, you know? But I hope it's up to par.  
> Oh, and probably some /major/ trigger warnings should apply for this specific chapter, especially the end of it.  
> Edit: I forgot to mention that this is the second to last chapter. There will only be another chapter and an epilogue. My bad...

By _their_ second date, it must've been around one or two in the morning by then, Zayn had this inkling feeling, the kind that crawls under and over your skin, caresses your heart and swells your mind up with everything all at once – like goosebumps shivering your soul – where he realized he would've been happy just laying there, with _him, their_ arms lined up, barely touching, he knew he wanted to let go. That's not to say that he did, not that night, or in a week, but he did, in his own slow pace, like a flower blooming in slow motion _their_ hearts crashed together in an explosion of stars.

 

It's the first thing he noticed about  _ him _ – that ring, the gold one, honey coloured with sparks of black, the kind of colour  _ his _ eyes would gleam with when the morning sun had shined just right, specks of onyx embedded in hazel. So as  _ he  _ brushed  _ his _ hand over Zayn's, he felt it, knew what the cold metal was. He ran his own finger over the material, feeling the bruises with his fingertips and  _ he _ must've felt it too, because  _ he  _ brought  _ his _ hand in front of  _ his _ eyes, looking at  _ his _ own ring with wonder, as if  _ he _ was seeing it for the first time, as if  _ he  _ didn't know it had been right there all along; as if  _ he  _ had forgotten about it.

“I found it in a vintage shop,”  _ he _ said, hand still hovering above  _ his _ face. “Sounds ridiculous, but I just thought it was perfect.” _ He _ looked at Zayn then, an embarrassed smile curving  _ his _ lips upward as  _ his _ thumb rubbed against the ring, and leaned to  _ his _ right, kissing Zayn. “Fell in love with it, I guess,”  _ he _ finished, wrapping an arm around Zayn's shoulders, so that Zayn had to lift his head up a little, resting his cheek against  _ his _ chest.

“I like it,” Zayn said stupidly, holding  _ his _ hand in his own, looking at it closely, seeing all the details around the loop.

“Here.”  _ He _ took the ring off and gave it for Zayn to hold, though  _ he _ brought his right hand back to where it was, intertwining  _ his _ fingers with Zayn's, leaving him to hold the ring in his right hand alone.

“Oh,” Zayn said as he noticed something, the one detail he wasn't able to see before, the most important one. “ _ you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars,”  _ was engraved into the inside, small blackened letters placed close together, curving beautifully.

“Yeah. I didn't even notice it when I bought the ring.”

My sun, my moon and all my stars, Zayn repeated in his head, feeling each and every word under his finger as he did so, knowing they meant something, but not yet what.

 

That ring, or the idea of it if you may, became  _ their _ thing; an 'always',  _ their _ 'okay'. The moon and the stars became  _ theirs _ without their say so, but Zayn's glad they did, because although his spirit wasn't born by  _ his _ light, as E. E. Cummings had written;  _ his  _ light, the moon, the stars were what kept his spirit sane during those first days of misery; the first five months without any sun, nights were the only time he was able to breathe – and in turn, not sleep.

_ He  _ had been the one to carry the ring, the one who owned it in the first place, but it goes without saying that Zayn didn't need a metal ring around his finger to feel the words on his skin too, to know what they meant, to admire it on  _ him _ as  _ he _ stared at it, was entranced by that simple band so many nights as  _ they  _ were laying in bed, coming down from their highs.  _ He _ carried the ring, the light ring,  _ their _ 'thing' for five, almost six years, everyday, every second on his right index finger and Zayn, Zayn has been wearing it ever since that day, the day  _ he _ took it off, pressed it in the palm of his hand while silently mouthing those simple words: my moon, my stars. He's been carrying it around just like  _ he _ did, except it became heavier, no longer a weightless promise spoken under tens and thousands of lights, but rather a broken hope stuck on a silver chain around Zayn's neck, ice cold and fading.

 

When  _ he _ finally, finally told Zayn why  _ he _ worked from home, how it was easier to vomit every five minutes in your own home than in an office with a view because of the fifth round of radiotherapy, Zayn moved in, became a steady part of  _ his _ life;  _ their _ life. He moved in, because the doctors told  _ him he _ shouldn't go out as much, should stay inside, warm under a  pile of blankets with a cup of tea in hand, and so dating became an impossible mission, going out to lunch a crazy idea and walking to the park certain death – in Zayn's eyes at least. He moved in, because he lived with his cousin and more people meant more germs. He moved in, because  _ he _ asked Zayn to,  _ asked _ , actually proposed the idea by  _ himself _ .  _ They _ moved in together,  _ they _ just never moved out.

 

It struck Zayn, hit him over the head and left him speechless for more time than what he liked when  _ he _ told him  _ he _ was sick – not just sick,  dying was the word  _ he _ had thoughtlessly used. And he should've known this time too, should've gotten the hint when he wasn't able to open his mouth to speak, to yell at  _ him _ , to tell  _ him _ how much he loved  _ him _ . But it was like his heart had stopped beating for a second, and when it tried to restart, it didn't know how to beat any more, forgetting what its job was, when Zayn thought of those words, the other ones, the bigger ones: in sickness and in health. He thought if  _ he _ was the person he'd be ready to make that promise to, the I do for life, however short of long; five, almost six years or forty. And so as the seconds ticked by, as he looked at  _ him _ , looked at how  _ he _ was holding  _ his _ ring in the palm of  _ his _ hand instead of on  _ his _ finger, how  _ his _ knuckles were beginning to turn white because Zayn still hadn't said anything, his heart started beating again, just like it had been before, kind of like it did at Lakeshore too.

“I do,” he blurted out, too lost to find his way out of his own thoughts.

“You what?”  _ he _ asked, more than likely confused by Zayn's words.

“What I mean is,” Zayn continued, undeterred, grabbing hold of  _ his _ hand and opening it up, taking the ring away from  _ him _ . He looked at the ring again, only shorty, before he took  _ his _ hand and slipped the ring back in its rightful spot, saying the words again, this time looking straight at  _ him _ , unwavering. “I do.”

 

And he did. _They_ both did. But it's hard to do when you're left alone, when you were a one who became a two and was left as a half – if that.

 

+

 

Although by the sound of it, _their_ relationship seemed pretty damn near perfect, as if it was all sunshine and rainbows and almost nothing like what it actually had been – objectively speaking. Yeah, _they_ moved in together, _they_ were more than in love and _they_ were both so happy, Zayn sometimes thought it was a dream. _Some_ times, because _other_ times, _they_ had spent hours, if not days, fighting, spitting words at each other _they_ didn't necessarily not mean in the heat of the moment, but _they_ both knew, _they_ both still loved – through the hate, the dark, the yelling and pass the shattered plates.

It wasn't always easy, wasn't always perfect, but that was also never an actual possibility, not with _him_ being sick; not with a constant convenient reason to start a fight. That's not to say Zayn ever blamed _him_ or threw _his_ disease in _his_ face, because he'd never do that, that's not who he is. It's just that, as a couple, as a unit, _they_ got tired here or there – both or one of them – and that's why and when _he_ 'd start to get spitefully mean, that's when Zany would get pissed at _him_ for not being able to go outside as much as he wanted to.

 

It never went further than that though, never escalated to where one of them would actually leave – even for an hour, not even for a second. They'd just yell and/or brake some expensive china.

So it wasn't all rainbows and sunshine, but it was love, _their_ love, with which Zayn became himself, with which Zayn lost a big part of himself, but it was also love – even if it's just to placate Zayn's mind – that gave _him_ a bit more time, some hope maybe, best last years of _his_ life definitely.

It wasn't perfect, but _they_ weren't either.

 

_+_

 

What if  _ he  _ wouldn't have died? What if  _ he _ 'd still be alive, breathing, next to him and he would have never met Harry? What if, not only would he have not come to Lakeshore, but not even know of its existence? No Dr Stygian or Dr Torp? No Niall, Louis, Liam, Amanda, Peter? No Harry. Because for the life of him, Zayn cannot imagine what it would've been like if  _ he  _ had been tumourless or healthy; if  _ he _ 'd still be alive.  _ He _ 's not, you know?  _ He _ wasn't and Harry was, and maybe he needed that. Maybe he needed someone to breathe for him, because  _ he _ stopped and Zayn couldn't by myself, his lungs just wouldn't work, not without  _ him _ , not any more, but Harry's could and so he did, breathing slowly and steadily, giving him all the oxygen he could've ever needed then.

He won't ever say it again, but Harry did it so much better than  _ he _ could. He did it better, because he  _ was _ better, healthier; better for Zayn. He won't ever say it again and he won't ever be as selfish either.

 

+

 

He didn't plan a dinner – well, he didn't plan a meal. He also didn't think he had planned anything special or even worth mentioning, but it was. It was special and it definitely  _ is _ worth remembering, because it was their second date, so here goes.

He waited for a week, because he didn't want to be disrespectful, even if Amanda was just relocated to a different, for the slightlier more insane, mental institute, it still felt as if she had passed away, no longer there with them. They were all promised – especially Matty, who broke out in hives over Amanda's sudden departure – that no one new would be joining them for a long while, so if any of them had wanted a single room, it was theirs for the taking. No one took it, of course, because everyone was happy with their rooms; even Nicky and Matty, for both of whom Zayn highly doubted actually enjoyed living together, but then again, being room-mates for over 5 years does something to a person.

So even when Niall told him that he'd be okay with Zayn taking the empty room, that he gets what Zayn is like, Zayn said no.

“Niall, I don't want the empty room,” he said, because it looked as if Niall was ready to fight over it.

“You know you'd rather be alone,” Niall argued, pacing up and down their room. “Just take it!”

“No!”

“Fine! Live with me. See if I care!”

 

It was more than likely Niall had forgotten what they were fighting for and yeah, Zayn might've been pissed off by the time the Irish boy left, slamming the door as he did so for good measure, but he still refused to move. The boy probably didn't get it, but there was no telling what a simple empty room would've done to Zayn. No one there to metaphorically talk to, no one there to make sure he was okay, even grumpily and not without unnecessary attitude in the middle of the night.  _ No thank you. _

 

Even Dr Stygian recommended as much the next morning. “Why don't you move into Amanda's room?” she prompted soon after she sat down, smiling. “You could have some alone time, more privacy even.” He swears, he swears on his mother's life she winked after that privacy thing. “I think it'd be a good way to show how far you've come.”

_How far?!_ Zayn wanted to scream, but instead sighed, slumping further down in his chair. Why did everyone think he was doing so good? What the fuck did he do to deserve Dr Stygian's insistent praises? Not have a raging fucking black-out? Well, lucky him. Not that he was ungrateful, because yeah, not freaking out over weird things was absolutely awesome. Okay, yeah, he was ungrateful, but no one was in the position to blame him, no one knew what it was like not being able to get angry or even slightly frustrated, surprised. No one knew how much it took for him to let Harry touch him or how much it hurt, physically hurt to realize it wasn't  _him_ who he wanted to touch.

“But no one's pushing you,” she said calmly. “You can stay with Niall if that's what you want.”

He probably couldn't have nodded faster or more intensely even if he had tried.

She smiled back, satisfiedly nodding herself before she stood up. “That's it for today, I'm afraid.”

Already turning to leave, she stopped in her tracks and smiled again, more or a smirk this time. “And remember, no more than one book and have fun. I might've told Niall that he's sleeping in Harry's bed tonight. Doctor's orders.”

Ms Dr Stygian: the matchmaker from the insane asylum. But with her help, he had his and Harry's second date all planned. And here's the twist: staying true to who he was, he didn't tell Harry about it; not until he knocked on that infamous red door.

 

“No!” He heard Harry yell, but proceeded to open the door inspite of his protests. “Oh, it's you.”

Harry was smiling from underneath his covers.

“What're you still doing in bed?” Zayn asked as he sat down on Harry's desk chair.

“ 'M tired,” the boy yawned to prove it. “Probably gonna spend all day in bed.”

“Wanna spend it in my bed?” Zayn said, and as he did, he was able to feel how his cheeks gradually went from slightly reddish to a nicely warm 200˙C in a matter of a second.

“What?” Harry said as he sat up, his covers pulling around his waist.

“I was hoping you'd want to go on a date with me?” Zayn wouldn't be able to tell how stupid he felt saying those words.

“What, like now?”

“Yeah?”

“But,” Harry whispered, as if he was afraid anyone else would overhear. “I'm in my jammies.”

“That's what I had in mind actually,” Zayn awkwardly confessed. “That we'd spend our date in bed, reading and listening to music?”

“Aww,” Harry cooed, dimples on display. “I'd love that.”

“Well, okay then.” Zayn abruptly stood up, his knees almost giving out from the sudden movement. “Come by my room in like 5? 10 minutes?”

“Okay,” Harry agreed, still smiling, still happy; still coming to his room.

 

Zayn went back to his room without saying another word, intent on making everything as perfect as he wanted, as he had imagined a week ago. He had changed his and Niall's sheets after lunch, both beddings navy blue with the covers and pillow cases matching in a lighter shade of the same colour. Dr Stygian had made an exception and let Zayn bring one single book to his room for the night and she also lent him the speakers from her office, but made Zayn promise the music wouldn't be heard past his room's door. With all of that, he planned accordingly: let Harry choose the music they'd listen to, while Zayn would read to Harry, with his fingers in Harry's curls as they both gradually fell asleep, because he wanted nothing else than to slowly drift off with Harry pressed against his chest.

 

Just as he sat down on his bed, he heard a light knock echoing through the room with Harry following right after, popping his head in.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes.” Zayn's tone was more than likely too harsh, but so was his heart beating in his chest.

“Okay?” And so Harry's was in-turn unsure.

“I'm sorry,” Zayn's form suddenly deflated as he scooted back on the bed, his spine meeting the cold wall.

“What are you sorry for?” Harry asked tentatively as he carefully sat down next to Zayn, though keeping a relatively small amount of space left between them.

“I had a whole thing planned,” Zayn sighed, speaking into his knees, trying to avoid looking at Harry. “But now, I just... I don't know.”

As soon as Harry had walked through the door, as soon as he saw his bright eyes and pale skin, the tips of his swallows elegantly peaking out from under his thin white t-shirt, he had a spur of the moment revelation, that maybe what he had planned wasn't his best idea ever.  _He_ had planned all of  _their_ first or so dates, because  _he_ knew what Zayn was like, knew he didn't like planning himself into failure, so  _he_ took over. But Harry didn't know yet and Zayn didn't want him to know, so he planned it; planned himself into certain failure.

 

“Come here,” Harry said, opening up his arms, smiling, but staying in his place. And Zayn wanted to stay still so badly he could feel his muscles twitch with strain when he practically fell into Harry, hooking his chin over his shoulder like he always used to do.

 

It shouldn't have been as complicated as it was; none of it, but it shouldn't have been easy either, and it's a good thing it wasn't, 'cause that would've been worse. He should've been able to go through with it, to just sit on the bed and fucking read a fucking book. Though, thinking of it now, being held, wrapped up in Harry's warm grip was better, much better than what he had planned, better than reading a book and listening to music ever could've been.

“Wait,” Harry whispered, as he started to lean back slowly, not letting go, rather tightening his hold on Zayn, taking him down too. “Better.”

 

Feeling a sudden heat run through his body, Zayn nestled his head on Harry's chest and looped his left leg over the boy's thighs, his hand on Harry's stomach to give himself a feeling of security, of being there, alive, heart beating.

“Tell me something,” Zayn said, needing to hear Harry's voice above all else.

“Hmm,” Harry thought for a moment. “My parents came by last week.”

A heavy breath got caught in Zayn's throat with hearing Harry's words, Harry's piece, his little moment, so he stayed silent, not wanting to break it, he moved his fingers on Harry's torso, drawing carefully gentle circles there. “They visit me twice a year. August and the beginning of December.”

“They don't come for your birthday?”

“Did your parent visit you for yours?” Harry asked tiredly, looking down at Zayn, whose hand stilled until he answered honestly.

“No, they didn't.”

“I don't know why,” Harry said after a couple of minutes of silence. “I guess you lose the right to celebrate your birthday the day you get committed. Or at least that's what all of our families think.”

“I guess so.” Zayn didn't want to dwell on the thought of him family, how disappointed his father had been or the look on his mother's face.

“Now you tell me something,” Harry urged, poking a finger into Zayn's side.

 

As a loud yelp escaped his mouth, he pressed his body closer to Harry, unknowingly, as a reflex.

“Please don't do that again,” Zayn begged through his laugh as he looked up at Harry, whose eyes were tightly shut, his bottom lip between his teeth and he looked as if he was holding a heavy breath.

“Harry?” Zayn was clearly worried he had hurt the boy, so he tried to lift himself off of him as best as he could, though doing awkwardly so. “Are you ok– .”

“Stop!”

 

With a flash of red, Zayn sat up, his hands already shaking in his lap with regret and worry, all physical contact lost.

“Hey, hey,” Harry then tried, to do what Zayn wasn't sure, because he didn't even know what was happening any more, lost in his head. “I didn't mean– ,” he continued, but saw there was no use. “Your knee was rutting against my...,” he stopped again, clearing his throat loudly, which made Zayn open his eyes and look up at Harry sitting opposite him, looking down at his crotch.

Zayn's eyes widened as he had realized what Harry was trying to tell him, blushing instead of panicking.

“Yeah, I just didn't think you would've appreciated me getting a hard on, is all.”

 

And to that, Zayn shrugged; he fucking shrugged like the awkward idiot that he is, but it at least made Harry blush so beautifully, Zayn had to lean in, he had to feel that addictive heat under his fingers, had to feel Harry's smile against his lips. Lost in the moment, the unbearably awe deserving moment that was kissing Harry, he also lost himself in Harry's skin, the pale hue of it, in the skin he'd want to paint if only he could mix that perfect, barely there pink. Moving his lips to Harry's neck, the scent of apples filled his lungs, memories, all new ones, of them sitting on the porch so early in the morning, they should've still been asleep, but they weren't, rather getting up and out of their beds, even if only to sit in silence together.

 

He probably shouldn't say what Harry's moan did to him, how his body immediately responded to the sound of Harry's voice, or how he practically crawled into Harry's lap when the boy wrapped his arms around Zayn's body, Harry's fingers clutching his black strands of hair. With both of his hands on Harry's hips, he pressed the boy down, pushing his back into the mattress again, as he kept his thighs on each side of Harry's, straddling his waist. He still had his lips on Harry's neck or jaw or somewhere in between, refusing to leave his skin unmarked when he felt it, or rather noticed the lack of feeling anything, as Harry's hands were no longer on his back or in his hair.

“Harry?” Zayn said into his neck, not wanting to look up, afraid he would've seen nothing but red or black or white.

“Can I– ,” Harry tried, unsure, but so was Zayn. “Can I touch you?”

“What?” He lifted his head to look at Harry then, not knowing what the boy meant.

“I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Oh.” _Oh._ As his head filled with things, words, emotions he wouldn't dare put into words, he nodded, words flowing away from his lips on their own accord. “Touch me.”

 

Harry's eyes fell closed, shuttering almost painfully when he brought his hands back to where they were before, moving his palms up and down Zayn's sides languidly, as if he was letting his skin remember, putting to memory how Zayn's slim waist felt under his touch. Reaching the hem of Zayn's T, he slotted his thumbs under the soft cotton of it, rubbing against his always protruding hip bones softly, before his other fingers followed suit, lifting Zayn's shirt just so as Harry's fingers slid over his bare skin.

 

Releasing a shaky breath, Zayn's head fell down, his eyes closing just as Harry opened his, bringing Zayn down, making him lean closer to his face.

“You have to tell me. Tell me what you're feeling,” Harry whispered close to Zayn's lips before he sealed his words with a soft kiss; then another.

And all Zayn found himself doing, all his body allowed him to do, was nod once, barely moving his head up and down.

“Tell me,” Harry whispered again, his hands steady on Zayn's hips, the patterns his thumbs kept making more permanently etched into his skin then any tattoo he could ever get, but he couldn't, he wasn't able to separate everything running in and over his head into words or sentences, nothing he could've verbally told Harry, so he leaned closer, everything he was feeling slipping passed his lips and on to Harry's, his tongue saying all he was feeling as it ran over Harry's bottom lip.

 

Harry's silent moan, that sweet sound was what Zayn has after, it's what makes him stay awake at night, remembering what if feels like to have sunshine glistening on his skin, even if the only thing illuminating his empty room is the ever present moon; it's what made him sit up and grab the hem of his shirt, bringing it above his head, chucking it to the floor without second thought – with no thought at all.

Harry sat up too then, holding Zayn close in his lap as his lips kissed the small indent on his chest, Zayn's fingers entangled in Harry's hair to not brake, to not fall completely for the gentle boy; to not get lost, to stay present, so that he'd know; so that he remembers.

He was able to feel these little breaths, these empty sounds Harry kept making, as if Zayn was the one kissing his chest, as if Zayn's lips kept running up and down his skin, and he wanted that, to kiss the boy, to finally know what all of him tasted like, to feel his heartbeat under his lips, to feel his heart shutter, so he leaned away again, this time lifting Harry's shirt above the boy's head as he pushed him down, making the boy lay back. He could feel his hands tremble when he slid them up and down Harry's smooth chest, admiring how his skin stretched over his muscles, over his heart before he leaned down too, finally feeling that steady thump. Harry kept running his hands on Zayn's thighs, sometimes ghosting his fingers over the elastic of his sweats, but never staying there long, just running his hands back down, so Zayn grabbed Harry's hands in his and brought them back to the band, _telling_ him it was okay, that he wanted that too.

 

And Harry moaned again, slinking his fingers in the elastic, gently tugging Zayn's pants down as Zayn continued to kiss and bite, mark every inch of Harry's skin he could find, get his hands on. Having his pants pooling around he knees, he fell to Harry's side, his spine pushed against the white wall as he pulled the fabric passed his ankles, Harry doing the same. Placing his lips below Harry's nipple he put his hand on the boy's stomach, feeling his muscles flex and relax under his touch as he slid his hand lower, lower down til he was able to wrap his hand around Harry's length, feeling it pulse under his fingertips as he tugged once, making Harry moan and lift his back off the bed.

“Oh, god, Zayn,” Harry brokenly whispered, framing his hands around Zayn's face and attacking his lips with a kiss that still lingers on his lips.

 

He could've stayed like that; tangled together, laying naked in each other's arms for days on end with Harry's lips permanently attached to his neck as he patiently jerked the boy off. There's something about making him twitch, making him unravel under the feel of his touch that made Zayn wish he could stop time, freeze it in the moment before Harry straddled his waist to get on top of him.

Zayn's wrists were trapped under Harry's strong hold then, held above his head as Harry engulfed his chest, kissing and licking over his skin, that made Zayn feel like Harry wanted to remember too, that he'd be able to live off of that memory too if he could.

But as Harry's hands let go to trace entrancing lines down his sides and hips, as his own travelled all over Harry back, up his shoulders and arms, he realized, he felt them, he felt Harry's past under his fingertips like he the boy was an open book and he hates it, he hates how much he loved it.

 

Recovering his sense of sight, he opened his eyes and moved his hands to Harry's thighs, feeling the bumps and old bruises there too, feeling these little and long lines run along the boy's thighs, painfully trying to find every scar he could get his hands on, because he felt like Harry was finally, finally letting him know; finally giving him pieces Zayn never though he was gonna get.

He had been focused on one in particular, the biggest one on Harry's thigh, keeping his finger there, feeling it move with his body when Harry lifted his head, his eyes watering enough for Zayn to close his eyes and stop, holding a deep breath and wishing again he'd been able to control time, to make this part skip.

“That's the oldest one,” Harry whispered as he sat up straight. “My first one.”

Zayn opened his eyes to see Harry looking down at his hand and he moved over it, probably remembering everything behind that scar and probably trying not to at the same time.

“It didn't hurt, you know?” Harry looked up at him and his face wasn't as broken as Zayn had thought it would be, rather honest. “It's the only one that I didn't feel.”

“Harry.” Zayn tried to say as softly as possible, tried to show just how much it meant to him that the boy was telling him this.

Leaning down and kissing him once, Harry hovered above him so that Zayn was able to feel his words on his lips. “I know.”

 

Intent on making Harry forget the reason he would ever hurt himself, to make him forget anything besides Zayn had ever existed, he caught Harry's lips with his, kissing the boy like he hadn't ever before, and it seemed to be working, because soon Harry was lost again; was his again.

The boy broke the kiss and brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking on them before he moved them behind his back, making them disappear from Zayn as Harry leaned back to kiss him. Harry bit his lips as he tried to contain a moan, licking over the bruise after as he released a shaky breath, his eyes swirling to the back of his head as his eyelids slipped down.

“Don't.” Zayn grabbed the boy's hips and lifted his own, making their lengths line up. “Don't hold back.”

Harry then bit down on his own lip, though it wasn't enough that time, the sweet moan of pleasure still slipping passed and making Zayn's erection twitch painfully against his stomach. He didn't know how many fingers Harry had worked himself on by that point, but he was growing more and more impatient as he was left helpless, not being able to help or make the boy create those noises himself, so he moved his palms to Harry's cheeks and spread them, giving the boy help to do it faster, to be done with it.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry lastly breathed as he leaned down on both of his elbows, tucking his head in the crook of Zayn's neck, whispering small little _okays_ into the skin there.

 

Zayn moved his right hand then, to reach down and line himself up, the tip catching on Harry's rim and making the boy groan frustratedly.

“Fuck, fuck,” Harry kept repeating as Zayn hadn't moved. Not by much at least, he just kept circling his tip around Harry's perineum, swearing loudly in his head too, swearing at himself for torturing both of them.

As soon as he pushed in, as slowly as he was able to make himself, Harry tensed, stiffened above him, his knuckles turning white with the force he was holding onto the sheets. He bottomed out, steadying himself and waiting for Harry to adjust, waiting for him to move, to give him a sign it was okay if he moved, and so Harry did. He sat up, straightening his spine with his eyes still closed, circling his hips carefully, to see what if felt like. And it felt like _everything_ ; having Harry all around him, tightly clenching to make himself comfortable before he braced his hands on Zayn's chest, lifting himself up slowly at first.

 

Soon, moaning and half sobbing Zayn tried to meet each and every move Harry had to give him with one hand wrapped around the boy, with one hand bringing the boy closer to the edge, closer and closer as Harry too kept making obscene sounds that kept making Zayn's hips thrust up impatiently, filling Harry with everything he had.

Breathing the same air, Harry kissed him, more like put his lips on Zayn's as he could feel his face scrunch up, could feel his stomach tighten along with his whole body, almost screaming out Zayn's name as he came, covering Zayn's hand in hot spurs. But Zayn didn't care, holding Harry close to his body as his hips repeatedly moved in these short spasms, plummeting over the edge and flying, releasing everything besides his hold on Harry.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? Any good? Why don't you take a minute and tell me exactly what you thought, huh? Maybe you were hoping for something totally different and now I've gone and fucked everything up? Or maybe it was just what you expected? Tell me! Please! Because sometimes I think I'm the only one excited for this story.  
> But even if you stay silent, I'd like to thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And now I finally get it,” Harry continued on an exhale. “Because I think that by helping you,” Harry poked Zayn at his side. “I helped me as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is finally here! And let me tell you, get your tissues ready for the epilogue.  
> I hope you like it!

Dr Stygian was right – August had been _warm_. The trees, the flowers, even the grass seemed to become alive with the heat, with August's sun. Their sessions continued as scheduled, only with a certain dead silence from about the begging of the month, even her surprised by the colours practically shining through the windows. He didn't touch a single book and Harry didn't press play once, not when they watched every sunflower bloom with the sun's appearance and not when the tree branches seemed to stoop lower, down a little with every sunset. Even Niall seemed calmer, more relaxed with himself. _Every_ one seemed at ease with the days starting to shorten, with the day's subtle thrum of sun rays on their skin. The air should've been humid and thick, but it wasn't, rather light and fresh, especially during the pleasantly warm nights when Zayn and Harry were lying on the soft grass, crickets as a background noise to their conversations.

  


“Do you still talk with your sisters?” Harry asked one night, and the question had been enough to send shivers down Zayn's spine, washing his face in a flush of sweat.

He swallowed hard before clearing his throat. “No, not really.” It was one of the last things Zayn wanted to think about. “Haven't called yet.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed heavily, causing Zayn to turn his head, seeing how his eyes were closed shut. “Me neither.”

“You have a sister?” Zayn asked, taken aback, and majorly so, because since when did Harry have a sister? A sibling he seemed to completely forgot telling Zayn about…

“Mhm,” Harry mumbled, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye, making Zayn turn on his side and put a hand on the boy's stomach.

_What is this?_ he thought. _What's going on?_

“Harry,” he said softly, trying his best to wrap his head around the situation. “Breathe.”

  


It looked almost as if Harry was reliving an awful nightmare form his past right there, in front of Zayn's eyes, in the middle of that all too familiar field. He thought he knew Harry, knew the ins and outs of the boy, sides the obvious holes, and so Zayn immediately jumped on that, on Harry's whimpers being an unpleasant side-effect of one of those pieces Harry had yet to have shared.

“Harry, I'm really gonna need you to take a deep breath,” Zayn tried again, and with a heavy sob, Harry took that gulp of air.

“I'm sorry,” Harry mumbled then, scrambling up to his feet. “I have to– .”

He left Zayn alone, running away, running back to the house, through the glass door, disappearing from Zayn's view. Harry ran and Zayn didn't know why. Didn't even know what had happened, if he had done something, said something wrong. Worrying that had been the case, he stood up too – slowly – and started making his way back too, hopeful he'd have found Harry and would have gotten a chance to talk to the boy; just be there, maybe letting Harry know he wanted to be there.

  


But, of course, Harry wasn't in the living room, he wasn't in his bedroom and the upstairs bathroom was locked – since patients didn't have keys, he moved on.

“Niall!” he yelled out to the blond boy standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Have you seen Harry?”

“Nope,” Niall answered too quickly.

“Where is he?” he pushed back, impatient, already in front of the boy.

“Told 'ya,” Niall said, spinning around him and jumping up the stairs, taking two at a time. “No idea.”

“Urgh.” Grumbling, he went back to the living room where everyone remained in their places as they had been when he walked passed them a few minutes before. _Who'd know?_ he thought, seeing Peter, who was reading a book, Paul, sitting by the entry to the dinning room and Matty, Nicky and Liam, all glued to the TV, sitting on the big couch. And since Peter didn't know which year it was, Paul wouldn't have told him even if he knew, he focused on Liam, the boy wrapped around with a blanket as if it were December and not the end of August.

  


It had to be the last thing he wanted to do, the last thing he thought he'd ever do, but it was Harry and the thought of Harry being worth it didn't even cross his mind – it didn't have to. He straighten his shoulders, walking steadily, feeling not at all ready for this as he stopped dead-centre in front of the big thin screen propped on the wall. Taking a shaky breath, he closed his eyes, readying himself.

“Um, move,” Nickly rudely chirped, as she moved her hand from left to right, just like Zayn knew she would.

He opened his eyes, shooting the most venomous stare in her direction, making her slump further into the couch cushions. He averted his gaze back to Liam once he had been sure he wouldn't have been interrupted again.

  


“Where's Harry?” he asked, his voice surprisingly strong and sure.

As Liam's eyes opened wide, the boy staring right back at Zayn, he heard someone gasp – most likely Nicky, and a sudden pull of a chair – most likely Paul. “Where is Harry?” he repeated, trying to convey as best as he could that he would by no means repeat himself again.

“Dr Stygian,” Liam whispered and Nicky gasped again, as someone walked behind him, standing by Zayn's side.

“Liam?” Louis said with such a small and soft voice, that coupled with Matty's sudden smile, he accurately guessed _some_ one had suddenly decided to make their appearance.

With no reason to stand there any longer than he already had, he started to walk back, through the arch way and his left, straight for that damn door.

  


Behind that door is where he found out he was gonna have to live there, at Lakeshore, from _that_ day on. It's where Dr Stygian explained what raging black-outs actually were, tried to make him understand how careful he was gonna have to be. Where she then went on to explain his medication, how important it was he took every pill as prescribed, how they will help him keep better control over everything. It's also where he _did_ get a little better, the night of his and Harry's first date, the night he let go again, the smallest bit – enough.

Taking another breath, he knocked lightly and went to open the door, only, only it was locked.

“Not now!” Dr Stygian's voice came quickly, yelling loudly enough to make Zayn jump back up a step, colliding with something, someone.

“Zayn.” A strong hold kept him from turning around, familiar hands on his biceps. “Dr Stygian's busy at the moment.”

“I know,” he whispered, not feeling as strong as he did a second before. “She's busy with Harry, isn't she?”

Paul patted his back. “Why don't you go wait in your room?”

  


And that, or a second later, was the moment he shut off, turning around and walking up the steps, his legs doing so by their own accord, his mind falsely blank when in reality, all he could hear besides the subtly insistent humming static, was his mind screaming, screeching one word over and over and over, his thoughts flooded with Harry.

He doesn't remember if Niall was in their room when he opened the door and walked over to his own bed, lying on his back to stare at the blankness of the celiling. He doesn't remember if he felt anything, if he should've felt something – worry, anger, sadness? Because if he did feel anything, it was Harry. Everything was Harry, but he didn't want to think about the boy or how he was to blame for what – if anything – was happening to him. It was the last straw, the last chance Harry was gonna get to talk about what was wrong, to tell Zayn why he was at Lakeshore. His actual last chance.

  


It might even be ironic, how not knowing Harry's problems had turned into Zayn's problem, how he had to know; but it wasn't the not knowing that he had had a problem with, because besides from the now obvious, Harry seemed okay – more so than others. It was the Harry not telling him, the Harry not trusting Zayn enough to share a part, to have a moment with him. _That_ he had a problem with, _that_ had hurt more than he could explain, put into words, more than it should've had. It really wasn't about knowing, but getting _to_ know. And yet there he was, lying on top of his covers, realising – after months – that Harry wasn't okay, that Harry actually did have some problems. More so than others.

  


He didn't hear, so he doesn't know if there was anything to hear, but Harry had probably knocked and maybe Niall had let him in, before he walked over to Zayn's bed. He didn't hear Niall leave and he didn't see Harry either, not when Harry was standing next to him or when he sat down at the foot of the bed, the mattress probably dipping down with him. Zayn rather felt him, felt Harry's hand on his leg, just above his knee when he came back, floated back down into his body and moved his eyes off of the ceiling and on to Harry.

  


The boy sitting next to him was shaking lightly, even his hand trembled as it still rested on Zayn's thigh, his eyes red, incredibly bloodshot with his bottom lip bruised and swollen as he must've had his teeth sunk deep in the shinning flesh of it.

“I don't have a sister,” Harry half whispered, half sobbed as another tear fell down his cheek. And Zayn didn't dare move, so he stayed still, stayed silent, his eyes never leaving Harry's. “Not any more.”

Harry took his hand away then, covering his face with his palms, hiding while being right there, in front of Zayn, not going anywhere or running off. Zayn decided he couldn't stay still any longer, couldn't simply do nothing, so he sat up, moving his legs on either sides of Harry as he pressed his chest against Harry's back, wrapping his arms around his torso as he ghosted his lips over Harry's neck, just above the dip of his shoulder blades; maybe telling the boy he was ready to be there, to not leave, to stay close as long as Harry needed, wanted him to.

“Why didn't you tell me before?” he whispered into Harry's neck and curls, not trying to make it worse by any means, but still not being able to not ask.

“Because I couldn't,” Harry whispered back, and Zayn could feel how the boy was struggling, his body relaxing against Zayn's chest, but still tense, still, ready to bolt.

  


“Is that why you're here?” He tried sounding as least inquisitorialy as humanly possible, knowing his luck was bound to run out soon, feeling how much pain Harry was in as the boy moved his head slowly, a carefully slow up and down motion.

He tentatively pressed his lips against Harry's neck before he nuzzled his head in the crook of his shoulder, letting his hands fall down to his sides. He presumed Harry would've more than likely wanted to be alone because the boy hadn't made any move to indicate other wise, so he went to move away, to give him some space when Harry whimpered, a sudden sob escaping his mouth.

“Don't go,” Harry begged, grabbing Zayn's arms and putting them around himself at they had been before. “Don't leave.”

“Shh,” Zayn tried soothing, tightening his already strong hold on Harry's shaking body. “I'm not going anywhere.”

  


As melodramatic as it sounds, holding Harry like that, with the curly haired boy holding it together by almost nothing, felt as if his world, patched up and barely there, started to crumble away again, piece by small fucking piece – moment by moment. But he couldn't have cared less, because it had seemed that by just staying there, with their bodies pressed close together had helped Harry, calmed him down; maybe even put one of his pieces where it had belonged.

It didn't take long for Harry to fall asleep, too exhausted to keep his eyes opened any longer. Zayn had lain down as Harry wrapped his arms and legs around him, making sure, the only way he could've, that Zayn would've stayed, that he wouldn't have slipped out of his room in the middle of the night, like he might've planned, but with Harry's head on his chest and his fingers in Harry's curls, he would've never moved, no matter how much he had wanted to.

He can remember the moment Harry fell asleep, the almost exact moment his mind slipped away as he nuzzled into Zayn's neck, taking a deep shaky breath and drifting off. And he'd like to say he had followed soon after, falling asleep quickly after Harry, that he didn't lay there, tortured and unable to calm himself, to even close his eyes for longer than a blink, because all he saw was Harry's broken face, his eyes red, his body trembling and his skin, covered in those long, thick or thin lines, murmuring a silent _stay_.

  


He was aware before he was fully awake, fully there, he was aware a pair of too soft lips were kissing up his jaw and down his neck, lazily, barely any effort behind the affection; enough, however, to have woken Zayn up – and quickly. He blindly turned his head, not even opening his eyes as he did so to catch those pair of lips with his own in a kiss just as unlaboured.

“Good morning,” Harry rasped above him, stroking his knuckle along Zayn's cheek as he kissed him again, some strength behind it.

“Is it?” Zayn carefully asked, moving back a little, just as carefully.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Harry asked back unsure, more or less clueless, as if he actually, truly had no idea what Zayn could've meant.

Propping himself up on both of his elbows alongside Harry, whose head rested on his bent arm as he was lying on his side, Zayn blinked away the horrified expression that persisted to make itself quite clear on his face; or so he tried. “I don't know?” he said more as a question than anything else, because at that moment, his head was swarmed by very bold and very red question-marks.

“Well I don't either,” Harry smiled, happy, excited almost as he leaned over to kiss Zayn again, a quick peck. “Breakfast?”

  


To say at least a couple of loud alarms went off around Zayn as they sat on the porch that morning, eating breakfast, would be such an understatement, it's almost not worth mentioning. But on the other hand it is, because it put Zayn at ease; no longer were Harry's eyes red, nor was he shaking out of his own skin, so all in all, Zayn didn't question Harry's sudden turn, his almost unconscious avoidance of what had happened; Zayn didn't question it much.

What he was thinking about was Harry's sister and the reason behind her death. Of why her death had such an impact on Harry. What exactly that impact caused, because Zayn highly doubted amnesia could've ever been so severe a 24-7 watch would've been necessary. And yet he wasn't able to think about everything that much or for that long, because soon after 8 o'clock, Niall came strutting out towards them, a smile mixed with a slight frown on his face.

  


“Good morning,” the boy said cheerfully, but there was something else behind his voice, something that made the Irish lad stand a little straighter and keep a distance from his and Harry's table by a couple of steps. “Dr Stygian wants to see you.”

With a raised eyebrow, Zayn put a hand on his chest, asking a question to which Niall courtly nodded.

“Yap. She's waiting in her office.” Before Niall actually finished speaking, he started to turn around, running away from them if Zayn doesn't know any better – and he doesn't.

Zayn also didn't know what to do, because honestly, the first thing that popped into his head was, what if Harry's mood takes another turn in the time he'd be gone? He didn't know what to do, but he still stood up slowly and smiled, Harry immediately smiling back.

“I'll be right back, okay?”

“I'll be right here.” Harry answered enthusiastically.

  


Walking the short distance from the porch to Dr Stygian's office, Zayn started to sweat, felt some sort of new-old heat taking over his body, his palms clammy – he was worried. He knocked once, lightly, before he pushed open the door, poking his head around it expectantly.

“Zayn!” Dr Stygian said with a smile. “Come in.”

He nodded to himself as he closed the door after walking in, aiming to sit down on the couch pushed against a wall in her office instead of in one of the two chairs at her desk, not quite ready to face her head on.

“I asked you here,” she started, still rummaging through her untidy desk, most likely looking for his file. Finding it, she took a breath and opened the red folder, eyeing it for a second before she looked up at him, all of a sudden more serious. No longer frantic or frazzled, but composed and stoic, as she continued. “Because I thought my office would be better for this little session.”

With a frown, Zayn looked up at the opposite wall, seeing it wasn't 10 o'clock yet, seeing their session shouldn't have started yet.

“I wanted to give us more time for a change,” she added as a side note.

Nodding again, he sunk deeper into the cushion, leaning his back against it to settle in better, but even with sitting on a comfortable couch for a change, his hands were still clammy, felt clammy-er as he tried to swipe them on his jeans.

  


“I wanna start at the beginning, so, first of all, Paul came to my office last night, _convinced_ that you spoke to him _and_ Liam yesterday,” she explained, looking from his file to him as she talked. “Should we keep Paul over night for observations or?”

  


_So this is it? This is why she wanted to see me earlier today?_ he thought and shrugged, answering her, not knowing what else to do. Or to think for that matter, because by that point, sitting in Dr Stygian's office with her impending questions and his memories of the previous day, night, he no longer knew what exactly was going on.

“See, I don't think it was Paul's imagination, because he also told me what it was that you said, so forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think you _did_ talk and I think you talked because of what Harry was going through.” At that, at the sheer mention of Harry's name, Zayn's eyes widened, his ears perked up, ready to listen and pay attention, anything to know what Harry was going through.

“And so I want to make some sort of a deal with you,” she offered and Zayn didn't miss how her tone became softer, how her body moved forward that slightest amount in trying to persuade him. “I want to hear you talk.”

  


Before she was even able to finish the sentence, Zayn had to close his eyes and intertwine his fingers in his lap, furiously shaking his head from left to right, his hair falling on his forehead.

“Listen please,” she pleaded just as the air in his lungs became heavier; not at all like air, more like liquid led slowly dripping down his throat. “I don't want you to ramble for three hours straight,” she rushed. “Just more than a nod or a shrug. And I want for you to tell me what happened yesterday.”

She finished her small speech with a desperate sigh, falling back into her chair and Zayn, not knowing what else to do himself – or if there was anything else _to_ do – sighed along with her, tired and just about ready to give up.

“Okay,” he breathed, staring at the floor. She tried to keep it together, yet still not managing to hold the gasp escaping her mouth to herself, as he stood up, no longer feeling as comfortable sitting on that stupid couch.

  


He took those two steps towards her desk and more or less plopped down on one of the two chairs opposite her, finally looking up and meeting her stare as he sat down. “Okay.”

“What happened yesterday?” she asked, quietly, getting straight to the point.

“I hoped you might be able to tell _me_ that,” he dead panned, his expression matching his tone of voice.

“You were there Zayn, you saw what happened.”

“No, I didn't.” He shook his head. “What I saw was Harry asking me about my sisters and then the next thing I knew, he was running away from me.”

_Away from me to get to_ you, _to talk to_ you, he thought bitterly, feeling a sudden pang of jealousy somewhere in his chest.

“You were talking about your sisters?” Her eyes opened as wide as if she doubted he was telling her the truth, averting her gaze down to the files covering her desk.

“I thought he told you.”

“Zayn,” she exhaled painfully, making Zayn notice he was not the most tired out of the two. “When Harry gets like that, he doesn't talk.”

“When Harry gets like what?”

  


In all of the time Zayn had known Harry, the boy was nothing but sunshine, helping Zayn and maybe even succeeding and doing just so in the short few months they had known each other. Harry was the reason Zayn was able to sleep longer, was even able to close his eyes for longer than a blink. He was the reason Zayn got out of bed every morning. Being painfully honest and heartbreakingly frank, Harry's the reason Zayn's even here right now.

“I don't know how much he's told you and I know _I_ shouldn't be the one telling you this, but, Harry's here, or at least the biggest reason why he's here is because his sister has died.”

  


He tried to wrap his head around it, tried to comprehend how Harry didn't talk when he got overwhelmed or what ever it was that had happened. Or how Harry was at Lakeshore because someone close to him, someone he probably thought he'd spend the rest of his life with in some way had died, and he almost smiled, because deep down, he thought he finally got all of Harry's pieces, and it had turned out that their pieces weren't all that different; or so it seemed.

But he shook his smile away, coming back to Dr Stygian's office. “I know that, he'd told me that.”

“God. Zayn.” If Zayn had to pick an emotion predominantly present on her face, it'd be disbelief or exasperation; maybe both. “You've no idea what you've done.”

“What?” he nervously asked. “What did I do?”

  


“I can't tell you that, I'm sorry. But know that, even if it looks far from it, you've helped Harry more than you realise.”

“I can't realise anything if no one ever fucking tells me anything.” He was starting to get rather frustrated.

“You're a man of few words yourself, Zayn,” she tried to lighten the mood, but failed, miserably, though Zayn still smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He stood up and looked at her. “Can I go now?”

“I guess so. And we can skip out appointment if you aren't feeling up for it.”

“No, it's fine. I'll be there.”

  


+

  


He saw Harry turn to walk down the stairs just as he opened his bedroom door, ready to drink that coffee. As soon as he stepped on the carpeted floor of the empty living room, he stopped for a second, only a short second, barely long enough to feel the barely there sunshine on his still warm from sleep skin, to be able to admire the soft, bright, almost white light that floated around him, filling the room. He doesn't remember now, why Harry went to sleep in his own bed that night and maybe he should remember, maybe it was something important, but he doesn't, because it's almost as if standing there, with his eyes closed but somehow still being able to see, the only noise coming from the kitchen, his mind erased anything unneeded and unnecessary, unwanted, from his memory. He does remember though, that he was wearing a jumper, a thick one, navy blue-ish with little dots of white and green mixed in randomly, with no apparent sequence. He was wearing Harry's much too big jumper, the sleeves hiding his hands, fabric pooling around his waist, but it was so unbearably Harry, smelling of his apple shampoo and vanilla soap, a hint of cinnamon, that he never wanted to take it off again, not since Harry had offered it to Zayn when they were outside one night, refusing to go back in the house to sleep, both knowing it was somewhat hopeless. But nonetheless, Zayn got a sweater he wasn't ever planning on returning out of it. By that day, when he heard a silent curse come form the kitchen, taking a step forward blindly, he had the jumper for a good couple of weeks, washed it and everything, yet the calming sent of Harry remained, and it still does, to this day.

Harry was wearing Zayn's sweater, his Nirvana one, with the massive hole in the left sleeve, when he accidentally burned the hem of it with a cigarette one morning, when he was trying to smoke a cigarette and get dressed for his class, miserably failing at multitasking. Harry was standing by the coffee machine, waiting for tiny, slow drips to fill the two mugs, one of them being Zayn's, and even if his back had been facing Zayn and even if Zayn was a couple of feet away from the boy, leaning on the door-frame, he knew Harry was smiling his small content smile. And he remembers that, because his mind wouldn't dare erase it, that morning is etched into his brain; he wouldn't want it any other way.

Because he wasn't able to stand there watching, because he wasn't able to keep his hands to himself, Zayn walked over to where Harry was patiently waiting, hunched over with a left hand on the counter, his right hip popping out, his boots crossed over, still smiling. Because, honestly, he just wanted to touch the boy, wanted their skin to be connected somehow in the moment, in every moment.

  


“Hi,” Zayn murmured under his breath, his voice not functioning in the way he would've liked when he put his hands on Harry's hips, slinking his chin over Harry's shoulder.

“Good morning,” Harry drawled with his raspy voice, probably his first words of the day. Harry leaned his head then, leaned it against Zayn's as he wrapped his free arms around Zayn's small waist, resting his palm on the small of his back. And Zayn never wanted to move again, never wanted to not be so close to the beautiful boy because his heart wouldn't have been able to take it. His heart trembles a little with every second they aren't together, because Zayn's heart isn't made for separation or for pain; it's made for caring, for adoring – it was made to love.

“You know,” Zayn's voice shook as he tried to find the right words to say exactly what he wanted. “I think I just might love you.”

  


Appeased with how he felt saying those words, the ones he thought were right, he hummed as he closed his eyes, tightening his hold on Harry's hips, but he wasn't waiting to hear them back. Zayn didn't need to hear them back, because he wasn't expecting Harry to feel exactly how he did, and he didn't want to push Harry, didn't need to push him. Harry didn't need to say those words back, didn't need to feel the same, so as long as he knew how Zayn felt, what he thought, that Zayn just might have love him.

“I think I love you too,” Harry whispered, turning around in Zayn's hold, though not managing to break out of it. Harry put his hands around Zayn's neck, intertwining his fingers as he looked directly into Zayn's eyes, his gaze honest and steady, with his eyes shinning a little differently, brighter, clearer; still smiling.

  


They both leaned in, their lips touching so lightly Zayn thought he was gonna burn with the need to feel Harry, to feel him more, as much as he could've had, but as Harry leaned his head to the right a little, Zayn was able to put some strength behind his want, pressing against Harry's chest as their tongues finally met in a whirlwind of heat. Grabbing at the black jumper falling off of Harry's shoulders, ready to pull Harry up on the counter, they jumped apart in surprise, the ping of the coffee machine enough to bring them out of their haze.

“Coffee?” Harry nervously chuckled.

“Might as well,” Zayn shook his head fondly, a smile spreading on his face when Harry took the cups and walked in front of Zayn.

  


+

  


He didn't want to go back to the porch when he left Dr Stygian's office, but not because he didn't want to be next to Harry, but because he wanted to be alone. And yet being alone in Lakeshore at any other time than 5 in the morning was slightly more than impossible. He went to his room, where Niall was spread on the bed, apparently tired and in need of a quick nap, so he gently closed the door, walking to the bathroom in hopes he would've been able to sit on the cold tiled floor for a bit – better than nothing, he thought. Though, when he tried to open the bathroom's doors, they were all still locked – all of them, even the downstairs bathrooms. So he gave into faith, knowing that he'd be able to sit outside with Harry in silence, the boy giving Zayn space to leave him with his thoughts for some time.

  


He stepped outside and saw Harry leaning on the brick wall with his back, eyes closed and face turned up at the sun, seemingly enjoying the last bits of warmth.

“Hi,” Harry smiled with his eyes still closed, knowing it was Zayn who had come to join him and closed the glass door with a quiet click.

“Hey,” Zayn returned, probably too quickly, the tension from his shoulders apparent in his voice.

Harry's eyes were no longer closed when Zayn sat down, Harry was no longer smiling, the ugly frown carved between his brows in its stead, but that wasn't what Zayn wanted; it's something he never wanted to do. Harry was silently looking at him, as Zayn refused to turn his gaze away from the lake in the distance; he fucking refused.

“What's wrong?” Harry whispered, causing Zayn to wince silently because of how Harry sounded, as if on the brink of crying, his voice weak and broken.

  


Zayn forcefully closed his eyes, keeping them shut as he breathed in and out, in and out, slowly and purposefully breathing away the red around his head as he tried to remember Dr Stygian's words: _You've helped Harry more that you rea_ _lise._ Opening his eyes, Zayn reached into his pocket and brought out his phone. The phone Harry gave him and to that day continued to fill its memory card with anything he found remotely interesting, even if that thing was Zayn himself. Zayn brought that phone out of his pocket and eyed it for a second or two, turning it over and around in his hands, smiling a little – a little painfully.

  


“It didn't stop you,” Zayn said, finally being able to look at Harry, at his unrealisticly green eyes. “Me not speaking didn't stop you from getting me this phone.”

Harry's frown of something close to concern turned to that of confusion. “It's not that it didn't stop me. I got you that phone _because_ you couldn't talk.”

“I thought about it, you know?” Zayn continued as if Harry hadn't spoken. “Before you came here, I thought about carrying a pad of paper around, so that I could talk to everyone. And I could've done that, but I didn't want to. I mean, yeah, I talked to Niall, but no one believed him anyway.” Zayn shrugged at the memory of Niall telling how he and Zayn stayed up almost all night talking to nurse Jackie and then her, in turn, condescendingly nodding at all the right places while not believing a single word that came out of Niall's mouth. “And then I met you and all of a sudden I _wanted_ to talk to you. But of course it didn't stop at texting, because here I am, talking more in the past couple of minutes than I have in the past couple of months.” Zayn paused, taking a breath. “What is it about you, Harry Styles, that makes me want to talk?”

  


He smiled at Harry against his will, a small content smile that is specially reserved for the boy, since he'd met him.

“My irresistible charm?” Harry smiled too. “I think– ,” Harry said and stopped, frowning at the ground again, thought this time, in concentration. “How long have you been here? Eight, nine months?”

Zayn nodded. “Mhm.”

“And I've been here for most of that, right?”

“Yeah?” Zayn interrupted, not knowing where Harry was going with his point, the boy always speaking so slowly and carefully, not wanting to leave out any details.

“I've never been here for that long, I don't know if anyone's ever told you that,” Harry huffed around a small smile of his own. “I make you want to talk, and believe me, you have no idea just how much that means to me and it's great. But Zayn, you make me want to be here and I haven't wanted that for so long.”

“Harry,” Zayn started, shaking his head. “I don't know if you get just how little you've told me. Like for instance, Dr Stygian said you don't talk when you get upset, but you never told me that. Not that you don't talk or that you get upset like you did last night, which you're still not acknowledging for some reason and I just –.” Zayn was giving up was about to give up. “I just feel like I'm losing my mind sometimes.”

  


They were both quiet for a painful amount of time, both breathing steadily and not at all as Zayn expected them to; looking at each other, but not expectantly, simply looking at each other, Zayn noticing how the sun was shining on Harry's face, making it seem calmer and more beautiful than it already was.

  


“When you went to Styg's office, I checked the bathrooms. Did you notice that they're all still locked?” Harry asked, waiting for Zayn to answer, but Zayn was losing his patience too.

“Harry…”

“Did you notice the bathrooms are locked?” Harry pushed, differently than the first time, less conversationally and more demanding, needing for Zayn to answer.

“Yes Harry, I noticed all the bathrooms are locked.”

Harry's shoulders visibly relaxed when Zayn finally answered, the boy smiling in thanks before he continued.

  


“They havent't locked them for nine months, I think it's been,” Harry went on, looking fondly at Zayn, lovingly almost. “I've been in and out of Lakeshore since my father sent me here, and I was almost nineteen then. The thing is,” Harry ran his fingers through his curls. “I never like, left left? Mostly they just relocated me, waited for me to get better and sent me back when I did. It's just how my life's been for the past couple of years, you know? At least until you came.”

It was... Zayn had to make sure to breathe because this sudden turn of Harry talking, actually telling him something, sharing a concrete piece Zayn was able to touch, to hold onto for as long as he wants was something he so primly needed, going without it for another night would've been too much.

He stood up, not looking anywhere else but at Harry, nothing but Harry and his golden curls and royally coloured eyes and those damn dimples he always loved to fill with his kisses; just Harry, his Harry, as he walked around the table and sat down next to the boy, right next to him so that their thighs were touching, grabbed his hand and covered it with his palms, resting his head on Harry's shoulder along the way. He breathed in the sent of him, the vanilla and the apples and home and everything he could've ever needed in his life was just right there, sitting next to him, smiling right at him. Zayn moved his head up a bit, enough to quickly place a kiss below Harry's jaw to urge him to continue, to tell Harry he wanted him to continue.

  


“Usually, I'd last two months or less,” Harry said as Zayn looked up at him, their fingers still intertwined, with Zayn's thumb reassuringly circling the back of Harry's hand. “I'd find anything sharp enough and just do it, so now, every time I get upset, they lock the bathrooms, which is where I'd go. Someone stands in front of my bedroom's door at night too. Everyone wanted me me to get better.”

Zayn wanted to ask questions like why would Harry want to do it, or what made him upset, but he was too blinded by Harry's smile to even think too hard, because Harry just seemed so lighter, relaxed, almost at peace, but not quite.

“And now I finally get it,” Harry continued on an exhale. “Because I think that by helping you,” Harry poked Zayn at his side. “I helped me as well.”

With an honest smile, Zayn kissed Harry under his jaw again, keeping his face in the crook of Harry's neck. “But what makes you upset?”

  


Harry twitched and Zayn saw a flash of red, which –. The thought of Harry being uncomfortable, in pain; hurt because of just about anything made Zayn clench his free hand in a tight fist.

“No, no,” Harry rushed, turning on the bench so that he was facing Zayn, still holding his hand. “It's fine, it's just hard for me. I've never talked about it before.”

“Oh,” Zayn said and relaxed. “Okay.”

“It's... I don't know,” Harry tried, looking far out at the lake to find his words as Zayn waited, ready to wait for as long as it took. “I guess it's enough if something reminds me of her, you know? Like Torp; Gemma always had her hair falling over her shoulders like that, so I really can't stand Torp.”

“And last night?” Zayn asked in a quiet whisper.

“I just started thinking about your sisters and how much they must miss you, because I really miss my sister and it was just too much I guess,” Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“We aren't so different, you and me,” Zayn said light-heartedly, smiling.

“Apparently not,” Harry easily agreed. “What about you? You haven't had a blackout in a long time, right?”

  


  


Zayn couldn't help himself, smiling what he thought was his best smile at Harry when he leaned in, kissing his answer onto Harry's lips, because no, of course he hadn't had another blackout. He hadn't even thought about _him_ in so long, he would've felt bad if it hadn't been for Harry.

“You make me a little less crazy,” he said when he broke their kiss, manhandling Harry to make him lean back on the wall, so that he'd be able to rest his head on his shoulder again. “It's not like I forgot what happened or why I'm here,” Zayn confessed. “I'll never forget who _he_ was, but it's just easier now, to not think about all the time. ”It dawned on him all of a sudden, just how true what he said actually was. “You make it easier.”

“I think,” Harry started, looking down at Zayn when he raised his hand and ran his fingers along Zayn's jaw. “It's because you love me.”

Zayn closed his eyes before peering up at Harry, at his dimpled smile. “You love me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love every single one of you for reading my mess of a psychotic story, for commenting and leaving kudos. It means more than you know!  
> Thank you and I'll make sure to not take forever with the epilogue.  
> (also, I forgot my charger, so this was posted and spell-checked very briefly, hope there aren't too many mistakes, and if there are, tell me and I'll fix 'em. thanks!)


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars,” Harry read carefully, letting the words settle on his tongue as if tasting them, feeling them hover in the air between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to kindly ask you to head over to the warnings and tags, because some have been added. If you don't want to spoil the ending, then read on. I do have to warn, however, for non-graphic depictions of self harm (non-graphic in a slightly graphic way I think? I'm not sure...)
> 
> Anyway, I took forever, but here it is.

“You shouldn't have unlocked the bathrooms,” Zayn said, trying to get comfortable, his hands going steadily numb because of the tight metal bracelets. “You should've given him more time.”

“You know it wouldn't have changed anything Zayn. He would've done it the next day.”

“And I would've had another day with him!” Zayn screamed, beyond the point of anything red. “I could've stopped him!”

“Mr Malik, calm down or we're taking you to your room.”

“Zayn,” Dr Stygian warned. “Breathe.”

_Breathe. Just breathe Zayn, breathe,_ was what everyone in this fucking place thought he needed. His fucking oxygen intake was fine, thank you; it was not what he needed or fucking wanted. It was not the answer to all of his fucking problems, not when he hasn't been able to breathe any more – without having anyone to breathe for him.

 

“Breathing's not going to help and you know it,” he said under his breath, not trusting himself to not scream again.

“What about if we go back,” Dr Stygian tried. “When you came to Lakeshore?”

“Oh,” Zayn countered. “You mean when you lied to me? When everyone, every single fucking one of you was lying to me?” He looked at his new doctor, Smith something, and pointedly continued while not looking away. “Did you know that I killed someone? No? Yeah, me neither!” he screamed at Dr Stygian as she leaned away instinctively. “Because everyone fucking lied!”

“Zayn, we've been over this,” Dr Stygian pushed back. “We weren't lying.”

And all Zayn could do was snort. “We were omitting the truth while keeping your best interest in mind,” he mocked. “For what? To make me feel even worse? Well, job well done, Doc.”

 

“Sonya, this isn't helping anyone,” Smith butted in, like he was a part of their conversation, like anyone actually wanted him there.

“Shut up or get out,” Zayn said coldly, his voice dripping with certainty behind his small smile – the one that made Smith sweat with fear, Zayn realized on his first day there. “I've killed two people and I wouldn't mind adding a third to that list.”

“Don't say that!” Dr Stygian spoke, begging with her eyes. “You haven't killed anyone.”

“I haven't?” Zayn asked, faking confusion. “Remind me then how _his_ doctor died?”

“Zayn, you _didn't_ kill Da– .”

“Don't you _dare_ say _his_ name,” he literally growled.

Clearing her throat, she started again. “You didn't knowingly kill  _his_ doctor,” she paused, waiting for Zayn's reaction. “And what Harry did... No one's to blame for his death.”

 

“How can you even say that?” Zayn couldn't believe what he was hearing, leaning forward and giving the guard at the door _a look_ when he took a step forward in precaution. He stared at the guard until he took a step back, returning to his previous position.

Zayn looked at Smith with an unchanging expression, as if to say,  _I guess we know who controls your guard dogs,_ before he turned to Dr Stygian, staring at her in expectancy to get his answer.

“Lakeshore,” she started, sighing and finally giving in, after all this time. “Lakeshore is a mental institute, yes, that much is true, but,” she paused as if telling the truth was somehow hurting her. “It's also a prison of sorts.”

“Where crazies go when they've killed someone? You don't say...” Zayn leaned back in his chair as best as he could when he realised, his eyes wide, his mouth falling open, staring at Dr Stygian again, asking a question he knew she'll answer – no patient-doctor confidentiality when the patient is dead.

Tiredly sighing again, Zayn knew. “He killed his sister's boss.”

“Sonya!” Smith gasped in shock, but refrained from saying anything more as he probably remembered Zayn's threat.

“It's okay. That's why I'm here.”

+

“He told me he loved me, you know? The day before, he told me he loved me,” Zayn said more to himself than anyone in that room, his eyes trained on the table in front of him as he remembered, would swear he could still feel Harry's hands on his waist, his breath on his neck. “And it wasn't enough,” he sighed, bringing his gaze to Dr Stygian. “I don't seem to be enough.”

Silence fell upon them, the room suddenly painfully suffocating, his heart beating with no particular rhythm, with no particular reason.

“Why?” Dr Stygian asked plainly.

“Why I'm not enough?” Zayn replied, conversationally, as if his heart hadn't been breaking into the tiniest of pieces, as if he wasn't in pain.

“Why do _you_ think you're not enough?” she asked more specifically.

“Oh, I know I'm not enough. If I was, then I wouldn't be here right now and Harry'd still be with me,” he shrugged. “It's not hard to understand. I loved him and he loved me. But I just wasn't enough to make his stay so he's gone. Easy.”

+

Everything was red. Zayn's hands, his arms, legs, shirt, even his eyes were bloodshot. Everything was red and cold. He doesn't remember, but he imagines he cried because that's what it felt like, his eyes burning with something. His hands were cold and he had a hard time holding on, he knows, doesn't need to remember how he gripped Harry's arms, how he moved the boy so that he was able to climb in the bath behind him, rest Harry against his chest. It was just so red. A bright red everywhere, seeping into Harry's white cotton shirt, turning his brown curls into an awful auburn. Harry was cold. Harry was paler too, his skin wasn't a rich pink any more. Zayn doesn't get the urge to mix this shade, rather remembers Harry's barely there pink skin, the way he'd mark that skin with red and purple bruises; the way Harry smelled like apples.

He smelled like iron, a thick, heavy scent lingering around his body, infiltrating Zayn's senses. Harry was so cold. He was heavy. Zayn had a hard time breathing with all of Harry's weight being pushed against his lungs, with having Harry's hands in his own. His fingers didn't feel the same. Zayn entwined their fingers, held Harry closer to his chest, but it didn't feel the same, because Harry was cold. His skin was white, red, and cold because of the water in the bath. It was probably warm when Harry had gotten in. Zayn was cold too, though he doesn't know if he was shivering because of the cold water or because he was numb; numb to Harry's touch, to his weight; to the red everywhere.

+

“Where did everyone else go?” Zayn asked, remembering it wasn't just him and Harry, remembering there were others left at Lakeshore.

“We relocated them to other facilities around the country. Some went back to their home towns, found local institutes.” It was calming for some reason, to hear Dr Stygian bitterly explain where everyone was sent off to; calming to hear her speak with discomfort; calming to know she was in pain too.

“Are you in contact with anyone?” He pushed, wanting specific information, needing to know everyone was okay; that he was the only one that couldn't breathe.

“Liam, Louis and Matty were put together. They're shaken up, but they're doing great in San Francisco, though I doubt Matty is enjoying the sun,” she said fondly, knowing too well Matty preferred being inside. “Pete was relocated to a nursing home. He's not a threat to anyone any more, and he's not aware of what happened, which is good, I think. Nicky chose to go to another private institute in California somewhere, but I'm not sure where exactly, because Torp was here primary doctor.”

Zayn was happy to hear everyone was doing better than he was, was happy to know everyone found a new place to settle in, a place where Zayn wouldn't bother them; come to destroy their lives again. But as relieved as he was, he still started shaking his head, waiting, not wanting to ask, hands shaking.

“Niall took it really hard,” Stygian began, calmly, trying to ease him in to it; though it didn't help. “We decided the best way to handle the situation was to tell everyone what happened. We thought it would give everyone some peace, closure,” she shrugged, shook her head. “And Niall seemed okay, he was lucid, completely. But then– .” It was like she couldn't finish, could complete the sentence without bursting out in tears. “He's been relocated to a private institute that specializes in dealing with schizophrenic patients.”

Zayn knew it was as much as she was willing to tell him, probably couldn't disclose much more due to confidentiality or some crap, but it wasn't like he'd tell anyone, wasn't like he could've told anyone even if he wanted to.

“What happened to him?”

Dr Stygian turned over to Smith, asking him to keep quiet with a look, telling him to give this to Zayn, and without Zayn having to give Smith a look as well, the guy nodded.

“He lost all sense of reality. We found him talking to what he thought was Harry and you in his room. He blocked what happened out and continues to live in the past, so to say,” she explained without as much as a blink or a single show of emotion; like reading news off a prompter.

 

He knew Liam would've closed off, that Matty would pinch at her skin a little, that Lou would take it the hardest out of the three of them. Knew that Nicky wouldn't have cared and that Pete wouldn't be able to comprehend or remember, but Niall? Niall's cocktail was finally just right, made him lucid without being depressed or sleepy; didn't give him nightmares or made him hyper-active. Niall had been doing so good in the past couple of months leading to everything.

Niall and Harry came to Lakeshore at about the same time, were friends since the beginning; best friends. Niall's brother dying was what brought him to Lakeshore in the first place; was what finally drove him over the edge of sanity and Zayn couldn't imagine what Harry's death and his room-mate's complete breakdown did to him; Zayn didn't let himself imagine.

+

They were lying in Zayn's bed, threw Niall out yet again, though the boy didn't really mind sleeping in Harry's bed, said it was more comfortable anyway. Zayn was lying on his back, his right hand behind his head, left wrapped around Harry's middle as the boy had his head on Zayn's bare chest, tracing nonsensical patterns over Zayn's abdomen. Even with Harry being taller than Zayn, just about an inch, and even with Harry having more weight and muscle to his frame, he fitted perfectly into Zayn's side, curved around Zayn's sharp angles; they fitted perfectly.

“Why do you have a ring on your necklace?” Harry said, looping the thin chain around his index finger and lifting it up in front of his face, examining the ring in question.

The question was one Zayn never thought of having to answer, never thought of anyone noticing that ring, which he always carefully tucked underneath his t-shirts; he never thought anyone would ever get to see underneath his t-shirt again. “ _ He  _ gave me the ring,” was all he said in explanation.

“But why don't you ware it on your finger?” Harry looked up at him, and Zayn could see his apprehension, could tell Harry knew he was pushing it. But Zayn saw how honest, bright Harry's eyes were, unable to look away.

“Because it doesn't feel right.”

“Why not?” Harry pushed further, making Zayn sigh.

“It just doesn't,” Zayn tried to close the subject, but it was Harry, it was Harry that was asking the questions, Harry who had the next question ready on his tongue, so Zayn closed his eyes and took a breath, readied himself to continue. “ _ He _ found it in a vintage shop. It was the first thing that caught my attention when I met  _ him _ ,” Zayn said, reaching for the chain at the back of his neck and pulling it over his head, letting Harry hold it.

“I like it,” Harry murmured, looking at it closely, admiring the details around the loop.

“It has an inscription on the inside.” Zayn remembered reading those words for the first time. He remembered how he had a feeling, an inkling of those words underneath his fingertips, how he knew they'd mean something one day, that he'll hold them close, though not knowing what they meant yet.

“You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars,” Harry read carefully, letting the words settle on his tongue as if tasting them, feeling them hover in the air between them.

 

That ring, or the idea of it if you may, became a symbol, a symbol of everything really. Of how Zayn only had the moon illuminating his sleepless nights, how the moon and the stars covering the sky was when he was able to feel his bones settle in his body, finally take a deep breath during his first few months at Lakeshore. It became a symbol of the heaviest burden Zayn had ever had to bare. A symbol of love and devotion, of excruciating pain and maddening blackness taking over Zayn's whole body with only flickers of red and white. A symbol of being engulfed into the nothingness that became his life.

Zayn looked down, saw how Harry kept twisting and turning his hand around to examine the ring from all angles, how his eyes radiated with that green that Zayn chases in his dreams, radiated with flickers of hazel, that colour Zayn can longer appreciate.

Harry was the one to make Zayn's lungs work properly again, was the one that made breathing easy again; that gave breathing a purpose again. The moon, however bright and in the company of tens, of thousands of small infinite lights, is nothing without the sun.

 

Zayn took Harry's hand in his, covered his palm with his own, tucking the ring inside Harry's hand and placed it on his chest. Harry sighed contentedly and moved his leg over Zayn's, lying on top of him, hand still on Zayn's chest, pressing his warmth, his brightness into Zayn's skin. They lay there, feeling each other's breaths, the slow beating of each other's hearts; feeling those simple words settle over their skin, into their bones, covering them both.

 

It was the sun. The sun was what gave Zayn a reason to breathe again, to feel everything he wanted to forget so badly, he thought the blackness of it all was gonna eat him whole. But the sun, the sun was so bright, so badly bruised and broken itself, so bright it didn't even realize it was brighter that the moon had ever been.

 

And even if breathing hurts again; even if Zayn wakes up every night gulping for air, reaching his hands out, searching for something to hold on to; even if every dream is filled with red, with a thick and heavy smell of iron hovering above him, infiltrating all his senses; even if he kept repeating those simple words, pressing the ring into Harry's cold hand, shivering, though not knowing why; and even if he can no longer sleep during the night, because sleeping without the sun hurts so badly, it feels as if he won't make it til morning, the sun still shines.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I'd like to apologize for the long wait. The epilogue was actually the first thing I wrote, but when it came to posting it, I didn't like how it turned out, so of course I changed it and then changed it again and again and so on and so for forth.  
> Secondly, thank you so much for reading and coming this far.  
> And lastly, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I loved writing it.

**Author's Note:**

> The sun will always shine. Always, even when you're not there.


End file.
